


It Will Come Back

by osunism



Series: Get Us There [15]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Female Character of Color, Implied Relationships, Now includes ART, Revision/Rewrite
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-25 05:44:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 48,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4948870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osunism/pseuds/osunism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A reimagining of Samson and his Inquisitor's story. Now includes art!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Post Tenebras Lux](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3751876) by [osunism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/osunism/pseuds/osunism). 



> Inspired in equal parts by Hozier’s “It Will Come Back” (hence the title) and “To Be Alone” (the theme for the ship), this is a personal revision project I’ve decided to undertake. Most if not all of you already know the story. I’ve rewritten it, expanded it, and edited it. The first time I published it was almost completely word vomit and a need to get the story out of my system. But after writing about these two for several months, I think this is how the story was meant to be told. This story also makes frequent and unapologetic references to my other fics in the same continuity, including [Blue Smoke](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3135110/chapters/6795638), [Happenstance](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3208025/chapters/6977501), and [Cleaning House](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4067131/chapters/9154405). And I've surprised myself because this story has gone completely differently from its predecessor.

            The trial had barely concluded when Cullen let loose the dog of his fury. Hadiza was halfway up the steps to her bedchamber before Cullen reached for her arm to stop her. She turned her wintery gaze on him, her expression caught somewhere between offense and surprise at his gumption. Cullen took a deep breath.

            “Why are you sparing him, Hadiza?” He asked quietly, “You know what he’s done. Our allies won’t be content until he’s suffered.” Hadiza snatched her arm away, eyes widening before the steel turned molten in her anger.

            “Suffer?” She demanded, “Cullen do you hear yourself? At what point have you ever known me to needlessly torment my enemies? He is beaten. It is done.” Hadiza marched up the remaining steps, anger writ in every line of her body, her rage simmering beneath her skin as if she would crack apart and fire would spout from her. Cullen followed, not content to leave her well enough alone.

            “And how will he atone for his crimes? Will you leave him beneath Skyhold to rot? Put him to work? I’m asking in the interest of those whose gaze the Inquisition has drawn to it. Your victory in the Arbor Wilds won us high favor from Orlais and Ferelden, but this? Hadiza, he is a war criminal of the highest order.”

            “And he will pay for it,” Hadiza said fiercely, “Cullen he will pay, believe you me. But I have had enough bloodshed to last me a lifetime. For Andraste’s sake is that not how I was saddled with this… _this_?” She lifted her left hand, the Anchor crackling in response to her anger. She closed her fist, silencing it. Cullen let loose a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

            “Cullen, I’m sorry.” She murmured, “Whatever grudge you bear against Samson must be set aside. This is not about your personal vendetta against him. This is about justice. He is defeated, and he has willingly agreed to give us the information he needs. For now, he will be turned over to Dagna for study.” Hadiza sighed, turning a slow circuit around the center of her bedchamber. Night was fast approaching as the sun sank lower beneath the peaks of the Frostbacks, bringing with it a chill that she felt in her bones. Summer was ending, with autumn encroaching, but the Frostbacks were always cold.

            “For your sake,” Cullen murmured, coming to stand next to her, “I hope you know what you’re about.” Hadiza sighed again, heavier this time.

            “You said he was a good man once, Cullen,” she whispered, “that you’d fought to see him reinstated as a templar back in Kirkwall. Is there no trace of that man we can dredge to the surface?”

            “I see nothing of the man I once knew, Hadiza,” Cullen answered, turning his gaze to her, “whatever you think you saw is not who I spoke of. But I know you’ll try anyway, won’t you?” He smiled fondly and Hadiza returned his smile, halfhearted and weary.

            “No more bloodshed, Cullen,” she said to him, “not if we can help it. We rebuild. And that means people too.”

            “I don’t understand why you’re so determined to aid a lost cause.” Cullen shook his head as he spoke, “He is lost, far-gone, and hopeless.” Hadiza pursed her lips, frowning.

            “You told me once that you are not proud of the man you were back in Kirkwall, yet you never told me why,” at Cullen’s intake of breath she held up a hand, “there is no need. It did not take much for me to deduce the why of it, though I’d much rather hear it told from your own lips. But why should Samson be denied a chance to atone when you were afforded every opportunity to acquit yourself with honor and dignity?”

            “Because he threw all of that away to side with Corypheus, Hadiza,” Cullen said hotly, “he defiled the Order. He slaughtered countless civilians to further his campaign. All for what? Vengeance against the Chantry?”

            Hadiza’s gaze was steady, her expression closed off as she waited for Cullen’s anger to subside.

            “And how many of us are innocent and bloodless, Cullen?” She asked him, “You heard him: how many died that we may assume power and authority to act where not one but two nations were too crippled to do so? Yes, Samson has done horrible things, but I do not doubt there is one individual in my circle who has not bloodied their hands for a cause they believed was just.”

            “And you mean to absolve him how?”

            Hadiza let out a bark of laughter, derisive and dry.

            “Don’t misunderstand me, Cullen. I never said I would absolve him. He will carry that blood on his head for the rest of his days. I can no more absolve him than you can condemn him.” Cullen seemed about to protest but Hadiza’s look silenced him.

            “So be it,” he said after a moment had passed between them neither wanted to acknowledge, “I won’t gainsay you in this. I do hope you know what you’re doing.” Hadiza watched him as he made his way back toward the staircase, and then vanished beyond her sight. She listened for the creak of her chamber door opening and the heavy click and thud of it closing. With night deepening, she made her way to her bathing chamber, stripping out of her clothes and boots, hanging them gingerly over the back of her chair before snatching the silken robe from the changing screen.

Her bath chamber was cold and dark, but that was easily remedied as she passed the ingress to breathe the spell that lit the sconces along the circular wall. The chamber was mostly stone and marble, with a large and deep claw-footed tub of iron and porcelain, curved and comfortable. Above was a chute, elegantly crafted to blend with the chamber’s artistry, and a chain with a wooden handle to release water from the cistern into the tub itself. She tugged once, holding it to allow the tub to fill. Along its curved sides were runes, shimmering with a reddish glow, shifting—always shifting—as the water began to steam from the heat. Hadiza released the chain to stop the water and then went for the shelf along the far wall where she uncorked a glass vial, filling her senses with lavender.

As she sank into the tub, she wondered just how deep Cullen’s hatred for Samson ran, and what her denying him his supposed vengeance would mean for them both. Unsettled by the thought, she took a deep breath and sank deeper into the water, willing the day’s events from her mind, seeking the silence and stillness of her center as she’d been taught in the Circle. Shutting her eyes, she subsumed herself in the void around which her thoughts swarmed, protecting the secrets her former tutors told her were worth more than any coin. Hadiza held within the void until the water suffused her limbs with languor, until the silence of the night was absolute as the winds from the Frostbacks died down, and until she had forgotten why Cullen was angry with her.

 

* * *

 

            Breakfast the next morning was a lonely affair, but Hadiza did not seem to mind it. The sun cast shafts of divine light into her bedchamber, illuminating the Inquisition’s insignia on the carpet, reminding her of the perpetual solitude her position entailed. She was _The Inquisitor_ , and there was no one to share the burden of what she carried. In this, she was reminded briefly of her life in the Circle. Long hours of study, bent over her desk in her tiny bedchamber, isolated from her peers for being associated with a _maleficar_ , and being escorted to her duties in the healing ward and back.

            Still, it was strange to eat alone when Cullen joining her for breakfast had become the norm. She missed his quiet laughter, his gentle smile, the way he’d watch her as she indulged the sweet bits of honeycomb the cooks had set aside for her enjoyment. He must have been well and truly wroth with her if he had not bothered to join her for breakfast. At the very least he could have come to talk with her. Hadiza dropped her half-eaten pastry, her appetite dissolving as her stomach turned. He was angry with her. Had she done the right thing in sparing Samson? She knew in her heart that executing the man or turning him out to die of lyrium-withdrawal would solve nothing. The former would sate only those who could not see beyond Corypheus’ threat, and the latter was simply inhumane.

            Hadiza stared at her plate, trying to will her appetite to return only to have the storm of her thoughts cut short by a knock on her chamber door.

            “It’s open!” She called with an authority she did not feel at present. She waited, thinking it was Cullen, only to find one of the guards bounding up the steps, coming up short as he realized he was within the Inquisitor’s bedchamber. Hadiza stood, drawing deep from the well of her confidence, however shallow, and fixing him with her most steady gaze.

            “Yes? What is it?” She asked coolly, and saw that her façade was successful. The guard startled and then delivered his report, trying not to stammer in her presence.

            “I deeply apologize for the interruption, Your Worship,” he said, “but you’ve been requested in the dungeons. There’s a matter that needs your personal attention.” Hadiza’s brows came together in a frown, lips parting in a silent question. For some reason, she felt she knew why, but did not dare speak it into existence. Instead, she nodded.

            “I’ll be down shortly.” She said firmly, dismissing the guard and trying her best to prepare herself for whatever _situation_ required her personally to be there.

  

* * *

 

 

            As it turned out, the situation was no situation at all, but an _incident_. Hadiza rarely visited the Skyhold dungeon, as she had found a way to keep the cells empty and free of inmates. But there were some she had yet to find a place for in the Inquisition to atone for their crimes, and so she found herself in the windswept and chilled chambers, listening to the murmur of voices grow steadily louder as she approached.

            “Make a hole!” Her guard bellowed, “Her Worship’s here to attend.”

            The murmur died instantly as Hadiza entered the main cell chamber. She waited, of course, ignoring the ubiquitous greetings as her eyes tracked the path to the figure lying crumpled on the ground, attended by a surgeon.

            Samson.

            Hadiza drew in a sharp breath, taking three swift steps to his side to kneel across from the surgeon. Samson wasn’t moving, and what little movement he accomplished was accompanied by a rattling noise as his nose, which was a bloodied pulp, attempted to draw breath. Blood was caked around his mouth, and one of his eyes was swollen shut.

            Hadiza felt something in her bloom, angry and violent, and the temperature in the room dropped, setting teeth to chattering, with a film of frost forming on breastplates and scabbards alike. She drew in a deep breath, but the frost of her stillness did not abate. Samson shivered, his bones felt like cracking both from the ache and the sudden chill, and his one good eye roved, catching sight of the source. No one in the room was a templar save him, and he’d not lost the knack for picking up on magic versus natural occurrence.

            Did her guards know how furious she was?

            “Who is responsible for this?” She asked quietly, and Samson wanted to smile. Now they would know. Her gaze cut a swathe through the assembled guardsmen, carving them for answers. Hadiza’s hands hovered over Samson’s still body, and Samson let out a sigh of relief as golden warmth passed through him. It was like a breath from heaven, and he let it take over his senses for the moment, the angry words of the Inquisitor momentarily muffled as the healing magic knit torn flesh and bone, leaving only the ache of his bruises behind.

            Hadiza took her hands away and the warmth slowly faded, bringing the world back into sharp focus.

            “If no one comes forward,” she was saying, “then _all_ present shall be held accountable. You can answer to the Commander, or you can answer to me. But you _will_ answer.” She was touching him, Samson realized belatedly. But there was no affection in it, only a cool, gentle but clinical detachment. Inspecting his face for further injury, prodding with a healer’s efficiency. These were the same hands that had seen him knocked on his ass back in the Arbor Wilds. The same hands that signed his life over to the Inquisition instead of to the chopping block. She could have killed him twice-over, but she stayed her hand. Samson did not want to be indebted to her. Not for something as embarrassing and shameful as being beaten within an inch of his life by guards with an axe to grind.

            “It was I, Your Worship,” a young lad stepped forward, suddenly filled with nervousness, despite his angry expression. Hadiza eyed him sidelong, and then stood, smoothing out her breeches. The expression she limned him with was hard and pitiless. The boy stood a little straighter and taller, finding his resolve.

            “My brother was killed…” He said harshly, “…at Haven. Daniel there lost his wife during the escape.” Hadiza’s eyes narrowed. Samson hoped in some part of himself that they would not name the dead. He felt the weight of blood-guilt on his soul enough already. If they named the dead, the chains would be binding and inextricable of a surety.

            “I lost my older brother, and six of my dearest friends at the Conclave.” Hadiza said, “This is not a contest. **Everyone** in this room has lost something to the brutality of this threat. Even _him_.” She indicated Samson, who hid his surprise behind a grimace of pain.

            “It’s not the same thing!” The boy protested, shrugging off his comrade’s attempt to stop him. Hadiza’s brows went up, her unspoken question begging an answer from the youth.

            “He willingly took the lives of innocent people. He didn’t care! He’s a disgrace to templars everywhere…and you should have killed him. This beating was the least of what he deserves.” Hadiza said nothing—no one spoke, truly. The silence that fell was a guillotine blade’s drop, but Hadiza’s expression did not change.

            “Would you like to be the Inquisitor?” She asked quietly. The boy looked surprised. Hadiza tilted her head. The boy shook his.

“What you have done is a deliberate attempt to undermine my authority and countermand my judgment of a prisoner.” She glanced down at Samson momentarily, and then turned to gaze at all in the room, her anger righteous and bright,

“Barring that, what you have done is an abuse of your position of authority over the prisoner who is also your charge. If you feel you are better suited to running this organization than I am, then you are welcome to have the position and all that entails.” The boy looked down at his feet, thoroughly chastised.

“You,” she pointed to the runner who’d fetched her earlier, “go to the Commander and make a full report of this incident. As for the prisoner, have him moved and confined to a private chamber until such a time as I see fit.” Samson blinked, attempting to adjust. He wanted to speak, to tell her to leave off her benevolence and let him rot, and let him suffer the abuse of her self-righteous guards—his jailers—but he didn’t. Instead, all that came from him was a pained groan as his battered body betrayed him.

No one questioned Hadiza’s flinch at the sound.


	2. Chapter 2

When the runner—Renn was his name—came to his office to make a report of the incident in the dungeons, Cullen was not ashamed to admit to himself that he wasn’t the least bit sorry to hear about Samson’s condition. However, his duty came first to the Inquisition, and it would reflect poorly if he were found condoning the abuse of prisoners. He had the guard rotations shifted, and the lad responsible was placed on restriction for 60 days, and his pay docked by half in addition to latrine duty in the barracks during his restriction time. Cullen figured that would satisfy everyone involved—Hadiza especially. What he hadn’t counted on was her having Samson move to solitary confinement…and her reasoning for it.

When she came to his office later that afternoon, Cullen found his anger with her renewed.

“You had him moved for his safety.” He stated and Hadiza nodded. “And what of the other prisoners? Will you leap to heal and defend them as well?” Hadiza’s eyes narrowed to slits, and for a moment Cullen was reminded of the sunlight glittering off the edge of a well-honed blade. Hadiza’s expression was locked in silent fury, gathering it to her like a storm cloud. The air between them felt charged with untapped energy.

“If they were forced to endure the abuse of your men, I would.” She answered, and Cullen wondered if the flow of magma had a voice, that it would sound as Hadiza did in that moment. He’d crossed a line, and he knew it. Before he could do further damage, Cullen opted to make amends.

“Hadiza,” her name only, but he could see the flicker in her gaze, like a flame guttering in a breeze, “I only just found out when the messenger came to report it. I bear no sympathy for Samson, as you know, but I’d never condone abuse toward him from my men. I’ve meted out punishment to fit the offense. No more than that can I do.” Hadiza was breathing deeply, trying to control her anger. Cullen in truth could not blame her. Her authority had been undermined, her judgment questioned and subsequently countermanded. He’d be angry too if someone attempted to usurp his command, knowing or not.

“Hadiza,” his voice was softer, and gone was the tone of the Commander; he was only Cullen, now, “I am sorry. You must know that.” Hadiza looked away from him, giving him only her profile. Her pride was hurt was all. She no more liked Samson than anyone else. Cullen understood that at least.

“I try to do the right thing, Cullen,” she whispered, “without hurting anyone. I try to make decisions that benefit the greater good. I’ve...I’ve executed two people since taking up the mantle as Inquisitor, and only because I had little choice. And...and you spoke of using the Inquisition to atone for your past. Tell me: why should Samson be denied the opportunity to do the same?” Cullen knew she was right in some capacity, but he fought anyway.

“It’s complicated, Hadiza. It’s not...it’s more than that. Samson is different.” He muttered. Hadiza’s lip curled but not in disgust, more in confusion.

“Why? Because he rose to prominence on the wrong side? Cullen, he is _beaten_. No amount of suffering or bloodshed will absolve him, but perhaps if faced with those who have survived the harm he’s wrought...he can begin to make a change for the better.”

Cullen loved her. Maker! No one was beyond saving to her, even one so low as Samson. But there was naught left of the man but a deep, abiding thirst for lyrium, and despair. What did Hadiza see that he simply could not? He had to get through to her before she made a mistake.

“I’ve seen what red lyrium does to those who attempt to harness it, Hadiza. I’ve seen it up close, and I’ve seen the results. It corrupts mind, body, and soul. I watched it warp Knight-Commander Meredith and destroy her from within to without. _That_ is what Samson has done to the Order. I can not forgive that.” He said to her firmly and Hadiza shook her head.

“I never asked you to, Cullen. Ah! No one would dare ask that of you. You don’t owe him your forgiveness. But will you not at least give him a chance to atone? Maker, Cullen! I don’t want our legacy--the _Inquisition’s_ legacy--to be one of brutality and unchecked bloodshed. I don’t want us to be like our predecessors.” Cullen understood then why she was so adamant about their methods. She generally avoided conflict when they talked strategy in the war room, always opting for diplomacy and even espionage before she considered having him send his forces to combat a problem.

He placed his hands on her shoulders, leaning forward to kiss her forehead.

“I’m sorry, Hadiza. It was unworthy of me to make light of your decisions. You know I would not do so on purpose. I understand your reasoning for it, but as your...companion, I only fear for your safety and the reputation of your leadership.” He wasn’t sure if he’d worded that right, but he hoped she understood. Hadiza sighed, stepping closer, allowing his arms to encircle her. There was intimacy there, but it felt drained and hollowed, both tired from their quarrel.

“I know you have taken Samson’s betrayal hard, Cullen,” she whispered, “and I am sorry for it. But there is a better way. Not everything can be solved at the end of a blade.”

“So you’ve told me on numerous occasions,” Cullen laughed and Hadiza gave him a weak smile in return. For a moment it was as if the quarrel was behind them, and so Cullen reveled in the silence and Hadiza allowed the restless unquiet of her spirit to stay trapped within her lover’s embrace. She knew in the deepest part of herself that this was far from over, though she could not say why. Instead, she shut her eyes, retreating to the silence in the center of her mind, letting Cullen hold her until his arms felt right again, until his warmth felt welcoming once more.

Some time later, after they’d made amends, she left his tower and made her way back to her bedchamber, wondering how she would manage to save the world when she could not even protect one man under her aegis. Sighing, Hadiza decided to go down to the Herald’s Rest for some respite.

“Boss,” Iron Bull greeted her, “been a while. Thought you’d gotten lost in that tower of yours.” Hadiza flushed, smiling sheepishly as Bull made room for her at his table where he and the Chargers were engrossed in a game of Wicked Grace. She held up her hand, declining to be dealt in so late in the game, and instead opted to immerse herself in the company of others instead. Bull engaged his men as usual, and Hadiza sighed, losing herself in the conversation, the witty banter, the cutting volley of well-timed insults and good-natured laughter. She felt at once apart of them and apart from them, as if she were some waking dreamer, watching snatches of someone else’s memories before her eyes.

 After the game, Bull gestured for her to join him outside.

“You and the Commander at each other’s throats isn’t helping anyone,” he said without preamble, and Hadiza swore she’d never get used to how quickly Bull picked apart a problem to tear its heart out. She heaved a sigh, huddling inside of her cloak to beat back the chill of the night. The sky was heavy with late summer storm clouds, eager to burst by day, but a hole had opened within, revealing the diamond studded velvet of the night sky, and a fat, waxing gibbous moon hanging in the sky alongside its paler, but larger counterpart.

“He thinks I should have had Samson executed.” Hadiza said sullenly, “But I am tired of needlessly killing people, Bull. I don’t want that to be the legacy I leave behind.” Bull was quiet a moment, but Hadiza could feel the weight of his gaze on her, pulling apart her words, inflection, and thoughts, probing at the blessed core of her discomfort. He was always so terribly good at making her talk without asking a single question. Like clockwork, Hadiza spoke again.

“My blood-letting isn’t done, I know,” she sighed, “Corypheus is still out there, regrouping, plotting, doing Maker-knows-what. Samson was closest to him, but thus far he’s incapacitated and has been reticent.” She knifed her fingers through her hair, laughing in helpless fury.

“Do you think Samson should die?” Was all Bull asked her. Hadiza’s gaze cut to him sharply, wondering what he’d found in his quiescent analysis of her mien. He’d found something, but he’d not speak on it, she knew. She took a deep breath, nostrils flaring as she exhaled sharply.

“No,” she replied, “I don’t. His death would serve no purpose. Better to get him talking; tell us everything he knows. Cullen was right about one thing: his head, as of now, is too valuable to take.”

Bull made a face that was almost a smirk.

“Mm.” He agreed, “And how do you suppose to get the information you need, boss? Samson was a templar. His mind won’t be easily broken. They train for that, you know.” Hadiza shook her head, turning her hands outward.

“I’m no Ben-Hasserath, Bull, to tease information from my prisoners with subtle manipulation. Perhaps this is a problem best solved with mending rather than breaking.” She glanced around, sighing. Bull still said nothing and yet Hadiza felt like he was saying _everything_.

“Stop doing that.” She muttered. Bull chuckled, a rumble in his belly that Hadiza felt along her skin.

“Doing what?” He asked casually. Hadiza snorted, cracked her knuckles, and wiggled her fingers to get the ache out of them.

“Talking without really talking. It’s unsettling. You think Samson should die too, don’t you?” She asked him. Bull’s laughter had long since faded, and his smile waned. Hadiza found herself rooted to the spot as he pinned her with a serious gaze from his one good eye.

“Boss,” he said in a tone that brooked no room for humor, “what I think here doesn’t matter. If you’re asking what I’d do in your place, then yes, I think it’s quite clear Samson would be executed.” He silenced Hadiza’s burgeoning rebuttal with a look, “However, I know you, boss. You’re gentle. You’ll dig deep and find a diamond in a pile of shit if the light glances off of it just once. Whatever you saw when you judged him was real, I’ll say that much. But what you do with that knowledge is entirely your call.”

Hadiza hated it. Hated that Bull did not take the bait. This was one decision she did not want on her head. Samson was a big fish, and she’d spent the better part of several months trying to catch him. Even then, the battle had been hard-won, and they’d been lucky to subdue him without any casualties on their end. She wondered far too often if she’d done the right thing. Had letting Celene live been right, even after learning about the blood on her hands? Had letting Alexius aid her mage allies been wise? The man seemed content enough to be once again in a more academic environment, working toward a greater good than his Venatori compatriots were set upon.

She knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Erimond’s death was well warranted. No walls of stone and metal would hold him for long, and after what he’d done to the Wardens; she could not cool her anger in time to reconsider, and his head had been mounted on a pike as a warning. The Duchess de Chalons had left her little choice in the matter, and Hadiza knew that a woman like that could not be swayed from her course. She thought of the box sent to her; the stench of bloated, rotting flesh emanating from it, pungent and nauseating; black, coagulated blood oozing from between the boards and planks, flies buzzing fretfully around it, eager for the prize within. Hadiza shuddered to think that the Orlesians had sent her that to _judge_. Suddenly, life in the Ostwick Circle did not seem such a prison as it once had.

“You’re overthinking,” Bull said, “stop it.” It wasn’t a joke. Hadiza blinked as if she’d just woken from a horrible dream.

“I’m sorry, I just…” She rubbed her temples, “I was suddenly aware of every decision I’ve ever made since they started calling me the Herald of Andraste. It’s…overwhelming.” She cleared her throat, “In any case, you’re right, as usual. I suppose self-doubt is a dangerous secondary voice to have in this sort of situation. I’m going to call it a night. I’ve a darkspawn magister to hunt.”

“Night, Boss. Try not to screw the Commander up too tight. The man’s got enough to tear his hair out over.” The grin that followed was secretive and Hadiza flushed, several lurid memories surfacing as she turned and hurried away back into the keep.

Inside, it was much warmer, with braziers lit and a lot more people coming in from the cold. Hadiza hurried past them, eager to get to her chambers and be blissfully alone. Even after so long outside of the Circle, she could not shake her comfort in solitude. The familiarity of being alone with her thoughts was too strong to pull away from, and so she sought it when the weight of her title became too heavy.

_I really hope you know what you’re about_. Cullen’s words echoed in her mind, stinging her pride and making her worry.

_Me too_.

 

* * *

 

Samson could not lie and say his disliked his new accommodations, but he’d not give anyone in the Inquisition the satisfaction of being privy to his pleasure. He wore the same weary scowl on his face as he had when first they’d hauled him before the Inquisitor’s throne, and while they’d been under orders not to harm him, it certainly didn’t stop them from handling him roughly, despite his lingering injuries. Samson winced, drawing on defenses and resilience that had been constructed over the course of decades.

Admittedly, they’d been worn down during his time as the Red General, but now, stripped of all: title, dignity, respect, even fear…that resilience and those defenses thundered fiercely back into place. It was that resilience that had seen him surviving in the streets of Kirkwall, fighting withdrawal and hunger pains alike. A few bruised ribs and a ruined face were nothing compared to the fiery spear in the gut that was lyrium withdrawal. He stumbled, hands shooting out to catch himself on the ratty cot to steady himself. He was only half-aware of the guards’ chuckle at his graceless fall, and climbed into the cot to rest his weary bones.

The door shut, was bolted from the outside, and he was stuck in a windowless chamber, with only the light from the hallway’s torches to shine through. It was just enough to ensure he could make out shapes in the darkness, but no more than that. There was a washbasin, a chamber pot, and nothing else. Piles of filth had accumulated in the corners of the room, and all Samson could think was how blessedly dry the place was. In Kirkwall, he had to fight just to find space to sleep. At least here, it was assured he’d be fed, that he’d have a place to lay his head…

…and now he had only his thoughts and memories to keep him company.

Samson was not so sure he had the courage to face them, yet, and so he turned his thoughts outward, away from himself, toward the Inquisition at large. He knew where he’d gone wrong this time, but Maker how had his life come to this? Had he not served as faithfully as Cullen? Had he not prayed, trained, and protected? His own compassion had been twisted against him twice-over, once by Meredith, and then by Corypheus, who had preyed upon his anger and hurt. Samson looked down at his weathered, dirtied hands, and thought about that last battle, and how he’d disgraced himself.

He’d had her. He’d been one grind away from removing her head from her shoulders. She’d been stronger than he thought, grounding herself as she pressed forward.

_“You don’t want this,” she’d said, “anymore than I do.” Samson’s bloodshot eyes had been fever-bright with adrenaline and red lyrium. The blighted lyrium was hot in his veins, saturating his mind with an inexplicable need to destroy the Inquisitor, to bring her broken and bloodied by overthrow to his master. He’d been consumed by his hatred in that moment, and distracted by her question._

_“Why are you doing this?”_

_In the moment he hesitated, her sisters struck._

Samson was drawn from his memory like a drowned man heaving himself ashore. The silence of his cell seemed so much heavier than when he’d first been thrown in, and he swore he felt the night deepening around him, though he could not see the sky.

How had Cullen managed to get out of Kirkwall and rise to such prominence? What did the Inquisitor see in him? The same man who’d seen the mages as little more than abomination that had not hatched yet? Samson wanted to spit in Cullen’s face. The boy felt betrayed, but what of him? Did all those years they’d spent together mean nothing? Samson had not forgotten how Cullen denied him a lyrium supply, citing Meredith knowing. Samson knew that had been only a half-truth as Cullen had been just as hooked on the dust as he was. They all had been. No templar in Kirkwall could endure the Gallows without a decent dosage.

Even so, Samson felt a twinge of remorse in hindsight. Could things had fallen out any differently had he not been so mired in his anger and hatred? He did not think Cullen’s anger completely unwarranted, but it reeked of self-righteous bullshit that most of the Chantry used to bludgeon its followers into submission. Cullen was not so innocent and blameless as his precious Herald may have thought him to be.

Moving and breathing hurt, and Samson lay down gingerly, attempting to enter a state of mind where the pain would not interfere with sleep. He was tired—he was beyond tired—and he knew come dawn that the Inquisitor’s plan would be made known to the public. She had foregone final judgment, but he was not holding his breath. He may not have been bound for the chopping block, but he had no doubt that the red lyrium would not kill him before they could exact their vengeance some other way. He spent the better part of two hours learning to breathe with bruised ribs and a swollen nose. He wondered what the Inquisitor planned to do with him if not kill him.

He learned what exactly those plans were when he was sent to the undercroft the following morning to meet with a very peculiar dwarf named Dagna.


	3. Chapter 3

            Dagna was not entirely unpleasant to be around, it turned out. Samson could endure the sneers from the guards and other denizens of Skyhold, and the not-so-subtle whispers of the nobility. He could endure being completely ignored. All of these he had learned to take with quiet contempt from his time as a beggar. He was used to it. Dagna, on the other hand, seemed completely cavalier about not only addressing him, but also _touching_ him. Samson wasn’t accustomed to being handled as if he was some strange creation or experiment, and he found it rather undignified. He comforted himself with the thought that it could always be worse, and clung to that thought when Dagna tormented him with her ceaseless poking, prodding, and questions.

            “Can you move this, Samson?” She’d ask, sticking a needle in a nerve, making a finger or some other digit or limb twitch in response. Yes, he could move it, sometimes not by his own will, it seemed. In conjunction with the thought that it could always be worse, he took comfort in the knowledge that at least in the undercroft, none saw him but Dagna when he was in a state of undress, being examined for corruption encroachment and other things. She’d taken a full assessment of his humors, from spit to black bile, trying to unlock the key to his resistance to the blighted lyrium. He gritted his teeth against a particularly invasive probe into his mouth, as she inspected his teeth. Some of his back teeth were missing as a result of a brawl and general ill health, and one of his molars was newly missing as a result of the Inquisitor. Dagna chuckled when she saw that.

            “I once saw Her Worship in the training yard fighting her sister,” she said, pushing Samson’s tongue aside to look at the veins and his gums, “it was a spectacle. Apparently they had an old score to settle.”

            Samson took a deep breath. He’d given his word that he’d cooperate. He was good for that much, at least, and he had nothing to lose. From the look of it, it seemed he had nothing to gain either.

            It was in that moment, with Dagna’s fingers in his mouth and damn near down his throat, that the Inquisitor opted to enter the undercroft. She came in laughing at some joke on the other side of the door, her head turned toward another, clad only in a thick, velvet robe of midnight blue, with jade elfroot embroidered all over it. Samson wanted to laugh. It was possibly the most mage-like thing he’d ever seen. As the undercroft’s door closed, she made her way down the stairs, nimble and cheery, a book tucked underneath her arm.

            “Dagna!” She cried, and her smile was bright and genuine, animating her dark face, making the silverite of her eyes seem brighter. Samson wanted to avert his gaze, so he rolled his eyes to focus on something else that wasn’t her. The scent of jasmine wafted through the air, brief and fleeting, powdery and sensual. Samson winced as he attempted to breathe deep automatically.

            “Good morning, Your Worship,” Dagna said, pulling her fingers from Samson’s mouth. He worked his jaw, grown stiff from her holding it open for so long, “I’m guessing you need something crafted? I see you got a new book.” The Inquisitor held up the book, which was leather-bound…but also banded with iron. The lock on it had been broken off. Samson had seen such books in the Circle, although mages had been forbidden to read them. Meredith had eventually had the library cased and curated to keep mages’ studies limited to what the Chantry—and ultimately, what _she_ —deigned suitable and appropriate. As a result, much of the Kirkwall library had been done away with.

How the Inquisitor was getting her hands on such tomes was a mystery to him. Then again, this was the same woman that had hunted him into the abysmal and forgotten places of the world, relentless and determined. He had no doubt she could get her hands on whatever she wanted, now. Dagna reached for the book automatically, opening it carefully and looking away as she did. Samson frowned. How did she know to do that?

“I’ve already dispelled the hex on it,” the Inquisitor said with a laugh, “but never hurts to be cautious. I did not need anything crafted as of yet. I’ve no field missions pending and all of my focus is now on finding Corypheus.” She fell silent, her gaze settling on him as if noticing him for the first time. He made an effort not to meet her eyes.

“Samson.” She said his name coolly, and he attempted to scowl at her.

“Inquisitor.” He said back. Dagna glanced between the two of them. There seemed to be no love lost there.

“I hope he’s been cooperative,” the Inquisitor’s voice was still chilly, but not as biting as it had been when she spoke his name. Samson did not want to examine why that bothered him, so he focused instead on the roar of the waterfall behind him. Dagna rubbed the back of her neck.

“Other than being a sourpuss about virtually everything? Nothing I can’t handle, Inquisitor. He’s not doing much, but his armor? Oh you’ve got to see this…” Dagna led the Inquisitor away, just out of earshot because of the waterfall’s voice. Samson watched them bend over a worktable, where his armor had been pulled apart, piece by piece, for examination; armor that had been worked with a careful and dedicated hand, perfected by Maddox. It no longer glowed, but he could see the enormous lyrium crystal on the breastplate, red and glossy, and the song was a quiet, discordant hum, brackish and harsh in comparison to the crystalline notes of the blue; the song he’d forsaken.

The Inquisitor peered down at the armor, blinking and curious.

“What exactly am I supposed to be looking for?” She wondered. Her hands came up seemingly unbidden, wanting to touch the armor. Dagna quickly slapped her hands away.

“Hadiza, don’t do that!” She cried and the Inquisitor peered down at the Arcanist, wide-eyed, more from the dwarf’s audacity than the admonishment. Hadiza flexed and relaxed her fingers, frowning.

“Dwarves can’t really be as badly affected by lyrium,” Dagna explained, “but that’s only blue lyrium. The red is dangerous, even if you touch it. There’s no telling what it’ll do to a human mage, especially with the Anchor on your hand.” Samson watched them in silence, his eyes narrowing. She’d been wearing gloves in battle but had she touched his armor? He didn’t recall. She’d been too swift of foot, too quick to cast spells and dart away, while the other silver-eyed women—her sisters, he learned—kept him distracted. His sword…Certainty…what had they done with it?

“I see,” Hadiza said softly, “I’m sorry, Dagna. I was just…curious, is all. What makes his armor so remarkable?”

“Everything!” Dagna said excitedly, “It’s seamless in its design. Somehow the red lyrium is apart of the metal. I can’t separate them…yet.” Hadiza smiled crookedly, nodding.

“Well then, get to work on that. For now, I’ve questions for him. Do you need him at present?” Hadiza didn’t look at him, but when her gaze seemed to flicker toward him, he looked away, frowning. Dagna shook her head.

“Just running some tests. The man’s health is very poor, Inquisitor. I’d go easy on him if I were you.” Samson saw out of the corner of his eye that Hadiza’s expression softened.

“Poor health, hm? Well then I shall be careful, then.” Hadiza approached him in that moment and Samson attempted to steady his breathing. He reminded himself that it was she and not some brutish lout that ran this organization. She could have killed him many times had she wished it. She’d not resort to torture for information. Samson did not know anything about her save her name, but of that he was absolutely certain.

Samson was sitting on the examining table, but Hadiza standing in front of him put them eye to eye due to their heights. It was in this moment that he got a good look at her. She was fresh-faced and dewy-skinned, her skin a dark and rich, burnished mahogany, her hair lustrous and oil-dark. Everything about her screamed _Rivaini_ , yet he knew from reports that she was a Marcher; that she came from money and nobility. Her eyes refused to match the rest of her, bright and pale as a winter morning, silvery and preternatural. They were gimlets when she’d sat on her throne, haughty and self-assured in her judgment of him. Now, they were molten and expressive, tentatively curious, silent and questioning.

“Are you alright?” She asked and gone was the cool inflection of her acknowledgement from before, replaced by the steady calm of still waters, revealing nothing. Samson felt his anger flare at the question and it must have shown on his face because she flinched.

“What a stupid question, I know,” she said with a laugh, “I…I wanted to extend an apology to you, for what you’ve endured since your internment.” Samson’s lip curled, but he said nothing. Hadiza heaved a sigh, looking at once at a loss for words and frustrated for the same reason.

“I meant your injuries,” she amended, “I do not condone the abuse of prisoners, no matter their crimes. It was unworthy of myself and the Inquisition at large for you to be treated thus, and for that, I am sincerely sorry.” Samson couldn’t maintain his anger, not in the face of sincerity, and so he snorted, brusque and dismissive.

“The lady is too kind,” he said acidly, “but I want nothing of your pity. Still, it is good to know it was not the Commander who sent you here to wring me for information.” He saw the silver of her eyes go hard with righteous indignation at the subtle dig. “What does Her Worship require?” His question was mocking in tone and Hadiza took a deep breath. Samson felt the temperature around him drop, and a shiver took to his body as frost bit into his fingertips, nipping the tip of his nose like a kiss.

“Careful,” he said to her, smiling in the face of her gathering fury, “wouldn’t want your followers to think you’re everything the Chantry taught them to fear.” He felt a bite of cold on his skin, but almost immediately it dissipated—all of it, withdrawn back to the source as Hadiza shut her eyes briefly, a small, knowing smirk curling her mouth. She chuckled, eyes opening, meeting his gaze fearlessly. She held it for a span most would call unfriendly. Samson looked away first.

“You’re right.” She agreed after the silence, “I should be much more careful. That aside, I only need to know where the remainder of your army intends to flee.”

Samson’s eyes narrowed. It galled him to be reminded that he was only alive because he was useful. Then again, was that not why he’d ever been kept around throughout his life? Because no matter how dry his bones were of lyrium, no matter how sharp the pangs of hunger, he had _something_ to offer someone and thus was spared a scrap of kindness? He did not think Hadiza the type to use and discard so easily, but he couldn’t read her expression, which was kept stubbornly neutral. Only her eyes expressed any emotion: a spark of curiosity, and an air of arrogant expectancy that he would discern what she wanted and yield it to her unasked.

“I can’t tell you that without a map, Inquisitor.” He replied in a voice that was more a feral growl, hoarse from thirst and disuse. Hadiza’s jaw shifted, tense with the burgeoning tide of her impatience. Samson saw this as a weakness and took advantage.

“You’re asking me because you can’t find Corypheus, can you?”

Hadiza’s anger welled to the surface like brutal magma, turning mercury eyes to molten steel. Somehow, this time she kept her powers in check, but Samson could practically feel her anger rolling off of her in waves. He gave a small triumphant smile. The Inquisitor did not like digs at her pride. She’d not be chasing fleeing templars if she knew where her true enemy had gone. After a deep breath, Hadiza calmed down, and a slow smile spread across her face, serene but taut with restraint.

“Do not,” she said at last, “mistake my common decency for pity or mercy, Samson. I have spared you the vengeance of those who were hurt by your despicable actions. You have not yet proved yourself worthy of aught else.”

Samson sucked his teeth in response.

“What makes you think I’ve anything to prove to you, Inquisitor? I know myself. I told you I’d tell your people what they’d want to know. I’ve nothing else to give you aside from that.” Their gazes met again. He could feel her searching despite her eerie stillness. Her eyes might as well been well-honed blades, carving away at him, trying to peel away the grime and get to the man beneath. Samson refused to let her. Whether or not she found the answers she sought, he didn’t know. She lifted her chin a little, defiant in the face of his stubbornness, and turned on her heel to leave, sparing a few words with the Arcanist in low, inaudible tones. Samson watched her go, taking that subtle floral scent with her. As it faded, her words began to settle in his mind. She wanted information from him, yes, but certainly she hadn’t gone the length of sparing his life—and saving his life—for all that?

Samson shook the notion from his mind. He’d not entertain false hope. He’d done so once before, and he knew too well the price for nurturing such lies. The Inquisitor—Hadiza—would get what she required from him, and then send him to rot. Samson wanted to laugh, bitter and amused. How was it any different than how anyone else had treated him? Used him up and then tossed him aside like a filthy rag. He wondered what his fate would have been had he no information to give her.

 

* * *

 

 

            When the Commander visited him a week later, Samson could tell the man had finally won a hard battle within himself. What that battle entailed, he did not yet know, but the dark circles beneath Cullen’s eyes, and the drawn, weathered lines on his face told a story to which none in the Inquisition would ever truly understand. Samson commended Cullen; the man was always stubborn, even when he was jumping at shadows when first he’d come to Kirkwall. He was also narrow-minded, in Samson’s eyes. The man couldn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel unless it was directly in front of him, and Samson had long since given up trying to convince him otherwise. The Inquisitor had gone to field work, and so that left Samson at the mercy of her leashed Commander.

            When the guards suddenly stopped their chatter, and Samson heard the sharp creak of armor and leather, as they stood a little straighter, he knew. Then his cell door swung open and Cullen, standing tall and looking as imposing as his position demanded, darkened the doorway. Samson leaned back against the wall, sucking his teeth, completely unsurprised.

            “Was wondering when you’d show up,” he said with a laugh, “you get lost on the way to the Inquisitor’s bedchamber, Commander? Or are you here to get information?” It was a test if nothing else, and he saw the spark of fury alight in Cullen’s golden-brown eyes, but it went out as Cullen shrugged, more to adjust the weight on his shoulders than anything.

            “I’ve come for information,” he said, ignoring the other dig at his personal life, “and to check on your condition.”

            “A bit late, Commander,” Samson sneered, “I’m one foot in the grave already. I can feel it.” He saw a flicker of _something_ across Cullen’s face. Perhaps it was surprise, perhaps it was somewhat else, but it wasn’t anger or ridicule. Cullen heaved a sigh.

            “There are still Red Templar encampments throughout Thedas that we need to disband,” he said in a tight voice, “and you’re the only one with their exact locations.”

            Cullen did not like Samson’s cavalier attitude toward his own mortality, and he wondered why he hadn’t been more aggressive in convincing Hadiza to go to the templars for aid. Had they gone to Therinfall Redoubt, Samson might not have become what he was, now. There might have been a chance to save and redeem the man he once knew. Cullen silently blamed himself for forgetting to look for Samson when he left Kirkwall.

            And Samson knew it.

            “You want to send your lovely Inquisitor to burn away my men, you mean, _not_ ‘disband’ the camps. Say what you mean, Rutherford, there’s no knight-commander here to punish you if you do.”

            “This isn’t Kirkwall, Samson,” Cullen snapped and Samson only grunted in reply, “and you won’t be able to dredge up old demons to run me in circles. We need to know where those camps are, or are you not a man of your word?” Samson’s brows went up, surprise on his face but a derisive amusement in his rheumy eyes.

            “I didn’t presume to bring Kirkwall into this, Commander, but you’ve the same hang-ups as you did back then, I see.” He’d been about to say more when Cullen’s lip curled.

            “Was there ever any honor in you at all?” He asked, “Did you ever stop to consider aught but yourself? Or was it all for the lyrium supply you were offered?” Samson stared at him, hard. For the first time in weeks, he felt something erupt inside of him, hot and piercing, righteous and vindicated.

            He was angry.

            Samson’s head tipped forward, allowing the weak light to capture the redness of his eyes, casting the sharp and drawn planes of his face in shadow.

            “You keep using that word, Rutherford,” he said in a low voice, “as if you’ve any claim to its meaning yourself. I seem to recall your history with mages being less than honorable. You think I’m weak? And you’re some kind of saint?” Samson shifted, turning his head to spit contemptuously to his left. Cullen’s expression was a gathering darkness of anger as Samson spoke.

            “Does your Herald of Andraste offer purification when she’s on her back, Rutherford? Did you find salvation between her thighs? I never took you the type to shit where you eat.” Samson almost smiled when Cullen lunged forward, and then caught himself. It had been unworthy of him, Samson knew, to use the Inquisitor as a dig at Cullen’s self-serving pride, but he had already been brought to his knees. He did not think he could sink much further.

            Perhaps he was wrong, but he hoped he wasn’t.

            “I acknowledged fully that I too failed Kirkwall in those days, Samson, but I was never willingly complicit in contributing to its chaos.” At that, Samson felt his anger shatter the lock of his restraint, and his face changed, drastic and dramatic, a snarl twisting his dry and cracked lips, his forehead wrinkling. In that moment he looked more wolf than man, with just as much savage ferocity as both.

            “You can lie to yourself, _Commander_ ,” And Samson limned the word in abject contempt, “you can even lie to your beautiful Inquisitor, but don’t you dare presume to lie to _me_. Not willingly complicit? Cullen, how many requests for the Rite of Tranquility did you and Meredith sign off on? It required the accord of both the knight-commander and the knight-captain. How many foreheads were branded in your presence? How many rape reports did you file away unread and uninvestigated? How long did you drown yourself in lyrium before the Champion had to thrash good sense into you all?”

            Cullen’s jaw worked as Samson dragged memories into the present, ugly and twisted with bitterness. And all true. Maker, they were all true. But Samson was not done with him. He was standing, now, not as imposing as Cullen, but still a viable threat.

            “You knew, Cullen,” Samson’s voice was fury and something else Cullen didn’t want to put a name to, “you _knew_ and you _saw_ , and you did **nothing _._** You don’t get to claim to have honor because in the 11th hour you finally decided to stand up to Meredith. It was too late. You turned your back on Kirkwall’s templars and what remained of its mages. Don’t you dare talk to me about complicity until you’ve acknowledged your own.”

            Cullen drew back as if struck, and he might as well have been. Kirkwall was a wound shared between the two of them, and there was so much more than just Meredith’s specter looming over their heads. There had been so many faces, drained of hope as a fresh lyrium brand was placed on their foreheads. He wondered, in a brief moment, what had become of all the Tranquil in the wake of the Gallows slaughter, and then he didn’t.

            “You fucking a pretty mage doesn’t absolve you, Rutherford,” Samson growled, “for Andraste’s sake did you even _tell_ her what happened? Or did you just wave it away as unimportant? I bet she doesn’t even know why magic makes your jaw clench like that.”

            Cullen remembered briefly, being afraid and empty of hope in the darkness; and then, strong hands, calloused hands, holding his face, thumbs stroking his cheekbones, and a gravely voice murmuring to him to stop being afraid. Cullen took a deep breath. Samson had been there when no one else cared to understand the reason behind the look in his eyes. Samson had stayed awake with him in the night when his nightmares reached for him, lying in wait like skulking eidolons in the corner of his mind.

            “So,” Samson said, his voice calmer, “seems you’re a liar too.”

            Cullen didn’t think, only reacted, and he heard the brief and satisfying sound of Samson’s face meeting his fist, sending the older man stumbling backward against the wall. Samson sat down heavily on his cot, letting out breathless laughter.

            “Can’t face it, can you?” He asked through bloodied teeth, “Can’t even fathom that you and I are not so different. Chantry chewed me up and spat me out in the gutter for not wanting to conform to their tight leash. But you? You left them because you finally saw the leash for what it was. Only difference between you and me, Rutherford, is that you got the girl in the end…and that somehow makes you the hero, and me the villain.”

            Cullen left, wordless and angry. As Samson was left alone in the darkness of his cell, he wondered again where things had gone so incredibly wrong.


	4. Chapter 4

            She’d spent approximately two months abroad, and as she and her squad made the final climb through the barely-visible path through the Frostbacks, she felt a profound sense of relief. While it was a short period for which she’d been long-absent from Skyhold, it did nothing to alleviate the strange homesickness she felt when in the field. A lively correspondence with her advisors had been maintained, of a certainty, but to Hadiza there was truly no place like home. Others may not have understood what that meant to her, but it did not matter, she was home.

            The dust from the Western Approach clung to them even in the biting wind and cold, and Argo—her dracolisk—hissed and whined for reprieve as the guards shouted from the battlements to raise the portcullis and allow the Inquisitor and her team entry.

            “How the hell does she put up with that thing?” Blackwall wondered aloud as they rode into Skyhold. Aja chuckled, amused.

            “Same way she puts up with everything else, I’d imagine,” she said, “although how she can stand to look at it is beyond me. It’s like a dragon buggered a pony and this is the result.” At that, Hadiza shot her sister a dark look over her shoulder.

            “I can hear you two, you know.” She snapped, “And do not tease him. He’s still swifter than any of your mounts.” She patted Argo’s scaly neck and the beast let out a breathy, shrill noise that made Aja curl her lip in equal parts disgust and bewilderment.

            “His being swift and surefooted does nothing for his appearance, Diza,” she laughed, “he can be fast and ugly all at once.”

            Hadiza frowned in the wake of Blackwall and Aja’s laughter, leaning over Argo’s head.

            “Don’t mind them,” she told the beast, who crooned, “they’re envious. Their mounts would flounder in a race before you even felt the first burn in your lungs. Aside, it is good to remember you’ve dragon’s blood in you.”

            “So do I!” Aja laughed and Hadiza sank in her saddle, sighing heavily. Argo, for his part, did not seem to care, even as Hadiza dismounted and led him to the stables. Because of the rather volatile nature of the dracolisk, studies showed that the mount chose their riders, not the other way around. As a result, this came with the added responsibility of the rider being in complete control of the dracolisk’s care and feeding. Any attempts by others to feed or tamper with its space were met with brutal fangs and snapping jaws, accompanied by territorial screeching.

            Hadiza finished putting away Argo’s tack, rubbing him down with the sand he loved so well, and feeding him, before rejoining her sister and Blackwall in the yard.

            “So,” Aja said once they were inside, “what are we going to do about—“

            “Not now.” Hadiza sighed, “I just…I need to take that all in. I’ll speak to Leliana about it in due time.” Aja nodded.

            “Don’t make any rash decisions, Diza,” Aja warned, “you know how those turn out.” Aja clapped her sister on the shoulder gently, giving it a gentle squeeze before they parted ways. Hadiza rubbed her temples and made her way to the undercroft. As she entered, Samson and Dagna were bent over the table with his armor, with him speaking in hushed tones while Dagna scribbled notes. He looked up first, meeting her gaze across the room. He didn’t know what expression he wore, but he detected no chilly welcome from the Inquisitor. Hadiza made her way down the steps and toward them.

            “Hard at work, I see,” she said in a reserved tone, “I hope you’ve been well-behaved while I was away.” Samson said nothing in response but Dagna smiled.

            “More or less. Sourpuss here has been a little less sour lately. How’d that lightning rune work out?” Hadiza grinned, running her fingers through her dry, dust-caked hair.

            “Oh it worked out. Though the effect was entirely too short. Is there a way to stabilize the length of it?” Hadiza reached into her pack, withdrawing a blackened stone that had once been a rune. Dagna took it, examining it closely.

            “Maybe. I’ll have to do some live testing to be sure,” she said quietly, “but…that’s where you come in, Inquisitor. In the meantime, sourpuss here has some gifts for you.”

            “I’ve a name, Arcanist,” Samson growled, “least you could do is use it.” Hadiza finally deigned to look at him. Like always, he met her with silence but with significantly less open disdain than before.

            “Gifts?” Hadiza wondered, puzzled. Dagna went to her crafting table to retrieve three stones, each carved with a single rune. She handed them to Hadiza, who examined them with her fingertips, tracing the rune in wonderment.

            “Seems his powers are good for something, after all. I have no idea what those runes can do, but I’d love it if you found out next time you’re in the field, Inquisitor.” Dagna didn’t seem to think anything of it, but Hadiza placed the runed stones in her pack slowly.

            “Um…thank you, I suppose.” She turned her attention back to Samson, “Your injuries seem to have mended. I hope you have been comfortable while I’ve been away.” Samson wanted to hate her, to spit in her face and reject her compassion. He did not want it. He did not want the Inquisitor to be everything he wished he’d had before Corypheus first gave him the vial of red poison.

            “He’s fine,” Dagna said cheerily, “or at least, he is very good at pretending. He’s not just sitting there anymore. Speaking of which, I need a sample of your black bile.”

            “Mine?!” Hadiza cried, her voice going a little shrill. Samson almost laughed. Dagna shook her head.

            “No! Your Worship I’d never ask you for that…not unless I needed it. I meant Samson.” At that, the man heaved a sigh.

            “You’ll have to wait until after the dinner bell at least, Arcanist.” He grumbled. Hadiza blinked, stepping away.

            “I’ll let you two sort that out. I’ve a debrief to attend.” She turned on her heel to leave, then quickly turned back, “Before I forget! Dagna, send Samson to the war room when you’ve finished up here.”

            “Will do, Inquisitor.” Dagna said without missing a beat as Samson laid out on his belly on the examination table. Hadiza left and Samson noted that the scent of jasmine did not linger as it had before. Instead, he smelled something sour and cool, but not altogether unpleasant. It was her own natural scent, pungent and earthy. He took a deep breath, and his ribs did not hurt, but his teeth ached. He thought of Hadiza’s surprised expression, of her pleased smile, and her gentle laugh. Something in his belly stirred to pitiful life, weak and fluttering, making his fingers and toes tingle.

            _No_.

 

* * *

 

 

            After his business with Dagna concluded, Samson was escorted to the war room by four heavily armed guards. He didn’t speak to them, nor did they speak to him, and he surmised that perhaps it was for the best. It was clear Commander Cullen bore him no mercy or sympathy, and that anything Samson said would be twisted against him either way. So he was escorted to the war room in silence, caged on all sides by his enemies.

            Were they still enemies if one did not believe in the cause they once proudly stood for?

            He supposed it didn’t matter at this point. His ragged uniform marked him as a prisoner, and he wasn’t exactly good at blending in. Everyone knew him; the Knight in Red. He knew the songs they sang of his disgrace, knew they surfaced in the mind of those who grew quiet when he passed by, silently branding him.

Oath-breaker.

 _Trash_.

            He had been many things in his life, and few of them good, it seemed.

            The war-room was much larger than he imagined, and less furnished. It reminded him of a Harrowing chamber, circular, but with more windows, but it had the same ancient and foreboding feel. Here was the heart of the Inquisition. Had he been far more tactful, he could have been a spy. It was an insult to him to let him in here. It was a clear message being sent: he was no longer a viable threat; a serpent with no bite or poison. Him seeing the plans drawn out by the Inquisition would avail nothing because he had been stripped of his power and influence. He had spoken truly: Corypheus would kill him on sight if he saw him again.

            “Samson.” The Inquisitor turned from where she’d been bent over the large war table, perusing the maps, smiling at him, “How good of you to join us; time to make good on your word.” Samson took in the other three occupants of the room, weighing and measuring the mien.

The pretty ambassador, Josephine, looked reserved, but somewhat empathetic to his plight. Commander Cullen was the very picture of disgust and dismissiveness. Samson recalled a time when Cullen had looked upon him as if he were worth anything…everything. Truth be told, it saddened him somewhat, but he’d bear it. The cloaked one looked indifferent, but Samson knew on the Inquisitor’s order she’d not hesitate to slit his throat. The Inquisitor herself looked cheerful, as she did not hold his life in her hand; as if he were an old comrade come to assist her needs.

“So it seems,” Samson said slowly, and made his way forward, feeling suddenly intimidated by the presence of the Inquisition’s leaders watching him. Hadiza for once did not make a show of her strength and gestured to the table.

“You mentioned needing a map,” Cullen said snidely, “and so we’ve gone through the trouble of providing you with one.” Samson held his gaze a moment and for a moment no one made a sound. Josephine cleared her throat. Samson studied the map in silence, then, dropping his gaze. He took in, in miniature, the power the Inquisition had amassed in so short a time. Markers for every camp established, every alliance made, every position held in Orlais and Ferelden…the sheer scope of it was staggering to him. How had they done it? The Chantry had denounced them in front of every peer of the Orlesian Empire in Val Royeaux last he heard, but somehow folk flocked to their banner, rallied to their cause, and took it up as their own. He’d seen and faced their army; he knew.

“When you’re ready.” Hadiza’s voice filtered through his thoughts and Samson had to keep his hand from trembling as he picked up a piece of charcoal, marking in his mind every major encampment of his men. He could have lied, led them astray, but what would have been the point? Corypheus was not the forgiving sort, and so his loyalty would avail him nothing.

His loyalty was always thus, it seemed.

Quietly, Samson began to mark on the map exactly where his men encamped. Doubtless they’d scattered the bulk of the army during the battle in the Wilds, but some had likely gone back to the camps. He’d asked the Inquisitor if she’d bloody her hands hunting them down.

 _Those we can save, we will save_.

How good was her word?

“So many,” Cullen muttered, “Maker’s breath…” Samson looked up briefly, and then went back to marking. “Inquisitor, what do you wish to do?” Samson finished marking as Cullen spoke, not bothering to wipe his hands. He didn’t want to see her face, but he looked anyway. She was staring at the map, her expression pensive, her eyes hard as diamond. She was so still Samson could have mistaken her for a living statue, until she took a breath, deep and even, reanimating herself and looking up to meet Cullen’s eyes.

“It would be easier to eliminate them all,” Leliana suggested and Samson grit his teeth on a curse. Was this to be the fate of his men? To be hunted down and put down like wild animals? He knew his fury was clear on his face, but the Spymaster seemed completely unbothered by it all. Hadiza shook her head.

“There are some who are…not beyond saving,” she said gently, “and I’d rather not rob them of an opportunity to live as men and women again. Commander, send out a coterie of healers with every contingent you send out on this assignment.” Cullen was about to protest, Samson could feel it, but Hadiza sighed.

“We can’t possibly assess which templars can be saved and which cannot, Inquisitor. There’s simply too many of them.” He told her. Samson listened, his stomach turning as the leaders of the Inquisition decided his men’s fates as casually as if they were speaking of the weather. Would she keep her word? Samson remembered that she’d made no promise to spare his men, only that she would try to save those that could be saved. Of that lot, he knew there were few who could truly beat back the corruption. Red lyrium was more potent than the blue, and corrupted and killed faster.

“You’re right,” Hadiza agreed, but her tone sounded hesitant, “but I don’t want to just…kill them all. There has to be some way.” She turned to Samson, “You are different…resistant to the corruption for all intents and purposes. Is there a way to tell which of the red templars can be saved?”

Samson said nothing. If there had been a way, he would have told her. He thought about it, thought about the moans of pain as his men and women burned from the blighted lyrium, distilled into bitter potions that burned the walls of their veins, replacing their weakness with unfathomable strength. The Chantry had broken them, and the red had rebuilt them anew. Samson was an exception to the rule that had seen Meredith reduced to a crystalline corpse in the Gallows. If there were others, they’d have succumbed to the madness of the brackish and discordant melody of its song by now. Somehow, Hadiza knew his answer from his lengthy silence, and shut her eyes.

“So be it,” she said at last, turning her gaze back to Cullen, “send out your men. Tell the healers to ease the passing of the dying. Where these templars go, they spread the red lyrium. We must stop them or they’ll blight the whole land.”

Samson’s anger simmered, but he said nothing. It was cruel; cruel to have his men hunted down like this, knowing they’d meet their end at the hands of the Chantry’s faithful. It was cruel, yes, cruel and _fair_.

“Is that all, then?” Hadiza took in each of her advisors, who gave a single nod in answer, “Very well, then. We are adjourned for the day. Dismissed.” They filed out of the war room one by one, sparing Samson not even a moment’s glance, save Josephine, who seemed to hold nothing but pity for him, which made him sicker. He didn’t miss the gaze shared between Cullen and Hadiza, and he wasn’t sure why but he wished to spit in the man’s face. It would be his responsibility to lead the hunt, after all.

And suddenly, they were alone in the war room.

“I’m sorry.” Hadiza told him quietly, “I would save them all if I could.” Samson’s lip curled.

“I’m not one of your mindless followers, Inquisitor,” he sneered, “you’ve no need to keep up pretenses and make false promises to me. I’ve had enough of those to last two lifetimes.” He saw then, something familiar flicker in her eyes, like lightning in cloud cover for all its brevity. It was the phantom of the same look she’d given him during his trial, the one he couldn’t bear. It held all the terrible beauty and grace of a benediction; and try as he might to face it with his open disdain, he looked away.

“I never promised to save them,” Hadiza said, “only that I would try to save those that could be saved. I asked you and your silence was answer enough.” She was right. She’d never promised, but the betrayal still nettled at his gut.

“You’ll do as you will, Inquisitor,” he said in a defeated tone, “as your kind is wont to do. I don’t expect anything more from you.” Hadiza’s expression seemed almost crestfallen. He’d wounded her pride. She attempted to do the right thing, only to fail. Good. He didn’t want to be alone in misery, and if he could knock her down a rung or two, even better.

And yet, it gave him less pleasure than he’d hoped for, and so he began to shuffle away.

Hadiza watched him go, wondering.

 

* * *

 

Samson welcomed the solitary darkness of his cell that evening. He found little solace in his appetite, and picked over his food. Remembering his roots, however, he finished the food if for no other reason than to keep his strength up. For what, he would never know. Sleep eluded him that night, and he found his fury roused anew as he replayed the events of the day in his mind. The way he’d marked the map, betraying the location of his men, the way Hadiza decided to simply have them hunted down. Cullen no doubt getting grim satisfaction from seeing his brand of justice meted out.

He could not kill Samson, or touch him, but he could hurt him through his men. Strip him of the last vestige that denoted he had once been important—that he had once _mattered_. All that would be left of his legacy were the scathing songs penned by bards who stretched their ears for new material. Samson lay awake in his impotent anger, until it exhausted him, leaving only the pain behind. His hunger was sated, but he’d been counting the days since his last dose of lyrium. Having gone from having more than he needed to none at all, it was beginning to wear on him. He could endure it most days, but the nights? Ah Maker, the _nights_ were when he curled in on himself, shivering and gritting his teeth. He refused, even in the most painful coiling in his stomach, to give his jailers the pleasures of hearing him in anguish.

And yet, even that was taken from him when _she_ came to his cell one evening, finding him curled on his cot, rigid and silent save for the grinding of his teeth. He hadn’t heard the guards address her, but then the pain usually drowned out all sound save for his pained, ragged breathing. But the door opened, and her slender silhouette cast a long shadow into the room. Samson couldn’t see, but he felt a faint tingle at the base of his skull as she reached for her magic and flood with the room with soft light. The cell door shut behind her.

Samson watched as she walked toward him.

“Maker…” She breathed, “Samson are you…” She stooped in front of him, hands hovering gingerly over his curved torso. “Guards!” Instantly the door was thrown open, and two guards rushed in to do her bidding.

“Get the Commander,” she ordered, “now!” They snapped a hasty salute and ran off, armor crunching with each step. Samson barely heard it as the sound faded. Hadiza’s expression was one of determination and partial surprise. Soft blue light emanated from her hands, and that golden warmth flooded him again, seeping into his bones. Part of him wanted to resist, to make of his pain the one place she could not influence him, but the healing magic eased it to a dull ache, much like the elfroot would have done if he’d had any. His body relaxed of its own accord, and he felt his limbs go sore from it. That too dissipated as Hadiza poured healing magic into him.

“Hadiza!” It was Cullen’s voice, “What in Andraste’s name are you doing?”

“How long has he been off the lyrium?” Hadiza demanded, never taking her hands away. Samson hoped she never took her hands away. He wanted to bathe in that golden warmth. The taste of honey flooded his mouth, a side-effect of healing magic, he knew.

“Since we captured him,” Cullen said, sleep still hovering at the edge of his voice like the frost of winter nipping at the edge, “why? Hadiza stop! You’ll drain yourself!”

“Cullen, he has been dying of withdrawal since we brought him here,” Hadiza snapped, “was this part of your plan? To just…let it take him? You know he won’t survive if we do nothing!”

Samson felt himself slipping into something like slumber, but it was more like slipping under warm water. Dying? Would that he were so lucky, then he could leave it all behind. But if there was a Maker waiting on the other side, would he even want Samson? Or would his spirit be cursed to wander, never to be gathered with the rest of the faithful flock?

“—too much pity on him,  Hadiza,” Cullen was saying, “and it’s beginning to worry me. Why are you so damnably invested in his health?”

“He knows where Corypheus is!” Hadiza snapped, “And he’ll tell me in due time. But I cannot expect him to do that if you are undermining my efforts to rehabilitate him at every turn.”

Samson froze as Hadiza took her hands away, spent. She leaned forward; bracing herself on trembling arms, sweat on her brow, most of her face obscured by her fall of oil-dark hair. She took deep shuddering breaths before Cullen helped her to her feet. Samson felt worlds better than he had before, but the pain would always be there, hovering like a half-forgotten dream, just beyond reach.

“I’m not undermining you, Hadiza,” Cullen protested, “I’m cautioning you. He’s suffering from withdrawal, but if we give him lyrium, he’ll become a threat.”

“And if we do nothing, he will die.” Hadiza spat, “You told me that most templars don’t survive withdrawal.”

“He’s survived it once—“

“Look at him, Cullen! He survived it once… _ten years ago_. I could feel the damage in his body as I was mending it. He won’t survive it a second time, not without our help.”

The tense silence warbled, drawn taut, and Samson waited. Hadiza was fighting for his survival, and Cullen seemed adamant in letting him rot and suffer. He hadn’t expected either to care, especially not after he’d given up the information they sought. His usefulness was done, what more could they do to him?

“If we put him back on lyrium, it may damage him further, Hadiza,” Cullen said, gentler this time, “And I won’t let you drain your mana trying to keep him healthy.”

“Then give him small doses. Enough to ease the pain…until I can find something suitable to heal him.”

“Elfroot…” Samson murmured, his voice hoarse from disuse, rasping like a breeze through dried autumn leaves. Hadiza and Cullen looked down at him and Samson saw two fates staring back. One was a path to life, the other was death.

He wasn’t sure which one he wanted more. He just wanted the pain to stop.

“Elfroot…” He rasped again, “…much of it as you can…get me.”

He saw Hadiza doing the math in her head, saw her formulating a plan, and then he saw it dawn in her eyes like a morning star. In that moment, Samson chose life.

“Alright, I’ve just the thing…but it will take some time to prepare. Cullen, can you see to it that he’s made comfortable.” She pushed him away, standing on uncertain legs, and left the prison cell. Cullen was left standing, bewildered and angry, with Samson laying in the cot, too weak and exhausted to do much.

“Too good for you, Rutherford.” He chuckled and Cullen’s gaze snapped to him like a whip crack. Samson smiled, turning his head away from the light as his head began to ache.

“Too good for you, you mean,” Cullen sneered back, “I don’t know what you’ve said to her that’s got her so determined to help you, but I wish you’d keep your mouth shut in the future.” Samson wanted to laugh again but his mind felt like it was becoming too large for his skull. Everything ached and he hoped whatever tincture Hadiza was preparing was delivered soon. A shot of the dust would have fixed this instantly, but he knew…he knew he had to give it up. Cullen would never let him near the blue, even if his precious Inquisitor commanded it.

“I’ve said nothing, Rutherford. Nothing she wanted to hear anyway. Maybe you’re just wrong about mages.” Samson knew the dig would touch a nerve and he heard Cullen’s shift in demeanor, felt the old rage kindled to glowing embers.

“That much I’ve gathered,” Cullen growled, “but she always did see the good in people, even if it’s not there.”

“I did notice your prison cells are lacking in occupants,” Samson chuckled again, but it dissolved into a pain cough, “her doing?”

“Yes.” Cullen said curtly, “Against our advice of course. She seems to think executions solve nothing.”

“She’s probably seen too much senseless ending of lives in her time, Rutherford. Ever thought about that?” Samson struggled to sit upright, then gave up as his arms failed him. Cullen paced, his agitation apparent, but his anger cooling somewhat. Samson had him on the defensive.

“You don’t know anything about her to draw such a conclusion. Hadiza is—the _Inquisitor_ is merciful because she does not condone violence as an answer. Only when she has no choice.”

“I’m real familiar with that, thank you,” Samson sneered, “she knocked one of my teeth out as a last resort, I guess.”

Cullen smiled, “You always were good at goading your opponent into foolishness.”

Samson returned the smile, “Guess some things never change, eh?”

But just as soon as the smile had come, it faded, and Cullen was closed off again.

“Why did you do it, Samson?” He asked and Samson took a deep, pained breath.

“When Meredith expelled me I had only enough coin to last me a few weeks,” Samson told him, “and when that ran out, I took work wherever I could get it. Templars aren’t good for much else than mercenary work, but we’re highly trainable, so there was always work out on the docks…and some less-reputable work at night.” Cullen’s focus was on him, eyes sharp, arms crossed.

“The withdrawal didn’t start until a month out. By then I had to choose between eating and getting the dust. You don’t want to hear this story, Cullen. What matters is I had no one.”

“Had you not been caught smuggling letters—“

“Cullen there was no harm in it, for fuck’s sake. The boy was in love, and all he wanted was to talk to his girl. Meredith was insane, we both know this. She was…paranoid. Saw blood magic where there was none. A mage couldn’t sneeze without her barking that they needed to be made Tranquil. Who in the Void wants to live like that, Cullen?”

Cullen looked away, saying nothing.

“Maker’s shitting breath, you’d defend her still? Even after what she did?”

“I’m not defending her, but was she entirely wrong? Blood mages were everywhere, Samson. Even the Champion had to deal with it.”

“And had Meredith not tightened her fist around the Gallows, a lot of them might not have been forced to seek a power to escape elsewhere. I’m no fan of blood mages either, Cullen, but you can’t possibly be blind to the connection, can you?”

Cullen opened his mouth to reply, but Hadiza swept in, bearing a large jug of something faintly pungent, along with a cup.

“I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything important,” she said with a heavy sigh, setting the jug on the bedside table, “this is a mixture of elfroot and crystal grace. It should ease the pain.”

“How do you know?” Samson asked. Hadiza fixed him with a firm look.

“I prepared this same tincture for Cullen when he faced withdrawal. I just made yours a little stronger. The damage done to your body is not entirely irreparable, and it may be we can slow your corruption to a crawl…Dagna’s working on something.” Hadiza poured the tea carefully, kneeling by the bedside. Samson was too weak to lift his arms and grasp the cup and so Hadiza helped him. Her fingers were cool and damp, calloused from wielding a staff, and she smelled of fresh-turned earth and…jasmine. Again. Samson shut his eyes, allowing himself to drink.

“You always administer aid to the ailing yourself, Inquisitor?” He asked as she set the cup next to the jug. Hadiza smiled, and there was no cruelty in it, not even pity or aloofness. There was compassion, an entire wellspring of it that he’d not expected from a Circle mage. Cullen looked on, thoughtful.

“I spent most of my time in the healer’s ward in my Circle.” She explained, her hands hovering over his torso once more. Samson studied her face, and thought he saw glowing blue residue in the grooves of her lips. That golden warmth returned, suffusing his limbs with boneless languor, making him sigh contentedly.

“I’ve sent a missive to Dagna to cease all study and experiments on your person until you’re hale enough to participate,” Hadiza explained, “until then, you’ll convalesce.”

“Will you attend him yourself?” Cullen asked and Samson almost laughed. There was something spindly and viperous in Cullen’s voice. _Jealousy_. Hadiza stood, wiping her hands on her breeches.

“If I must,” she said in answer, meeting Cullen’s gaze fearlessly, “as I can’t risk anyone slipping poison into his drink or some other nonsense.”

“You can’t possibly think someone would…” Cullen looked nonplussed. Hadiza frowned.

“What kind of fool do you take me for, Cullen? Of course I don’t think someone would be so brazen. But I have been wrong before. I’ll attend him if need be. Unless of course you wish to administer aid yourself.”

Cullen’s mouth opened, then shut.

“I thought not.” Hadiza turned to Samson, and she smiled again. Samson wanted to hate her, but found it increasingly difficult to do so. She gave Cullen a run for his money, flustered him, made him feel foolish, and Samson took some small pleasure in that. She also had a beautiful smile, and who could hate that?

“Goodnight, Samson.” She said to him, and left, taking the scent of earth and jasmine with her. Cullen waited a moment before turning to follow.

“Some things never do change.” Samson chuckled and Cullen frowned, scoffing before leaving him to the darkness of his cell.

But it was no longer a cold and empty space.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artwork by me.


	5. Chapter 5

            Recovery was not easy, and Samson had not expected it to be. But he would say that this was the first time someone had extended a hand to him in aid. Over the course of the weeks as he cleansed himself of the thirst and ache and agony, Hadiza attended him, as she said she would. He found out later that she spent a lot of her time in the infirmary, administering healing to the sick, ailing, and dying. What she could not do, she passed to more experienced, skilled hands, but Samson began to understand why people followed her willfully.

            At first, they did not speak, mostly because it was too painful for him to expend energy in doing so, but she did not seem to mind. He watched her fall back into what he assumed was an old habit, administering aid to the corrupted parts of his body, speaking in soft, soothing tones, the quintessential bed nurse. Through it all she did not break his dignity with pity, only a divine patience that was at once born of necessity and because Samson knew that this was just who she was. She’d have treated no one else any differently in his position.

            Cullen visited, but only to inform Hadiza she had other duties to attend, sparing poisonous glances at Samson, who was finally able to sit up on his own without aid. Hadiza would leave, smiling ruefully at him, and Samson would feel his heart and stomach do something terrifying.

            He preferred not to think on that.

            On the days Hadiza was not by his bedside, Samson turned his thoughts inward. He thought of past, while his present seemed to limp past like grains in a faulty hourglass. With naught to do but dream and ruminate, he saw clearly the path that lay behind him.

            He had come from humble beginnings, like many templars, raised to love and revere the Chant, and to believe that all things were part of some grander, incomprehensible plan of the Maker. Samson had embraced the faith with heart and soul, for it was the Chantry that molded him. He studied as was expected of him, and he studied more than what was expected of him. He did not limit his knowledge to the holy texts, the sacred words, and the tenets of the Order. No, he studied that which his charges were encouraged to read as well. Before Kirkwall fell under Meredith’s shadow, things had been somewhat easier. Samson could speak with the mages freely, genuinely curious and interested in their magic and its practical applications.

            Maddox had not been the best mage, but he had gotten by. Like templars, mages had their own curriculum and it was up to the mage to go above and beyond the standard. Maddox seemed content to simply know what was necessary to know. There was no danger of temptation in the Fade for him, Samson knew, and the two struck up a friendship based on a mutual loneliness the Circle forced upon both sides.

            Meredith’s reign had changed everything. She had always been vocal about her distrust of mages, but always her paranoia had been impotent and met with wary skepticism. When the mantle of knight-commander was passed to her, however, it was as if the gates of perdition had opened and the flames within engulfed them all. She took their books first, the ones not sanctioned explicitly by the Chantry, and anything she suspected would make mages more powerful.

            Samson watched as little by little, Meredith stripped the Circle of its academic atmosphere and turned it into a veritable prison. The libraries were quiet from desertion most of the time, mages being confined to their quarters under heavy guard rotation.

            More and more brands began appearing on foreheads.

            Friends who had passed their Harrowings, who had never thought to even implement blood magic from so much as a paper cut, were accused of heresy and dragged before the knight-commander to feebly defend themselves. Meredith saw blood mages and abominations every where she looked.

            And when Cullen came to the Gallows, she saw in him what had been allowed to fester within her.

            By then, Samson had lost himself in the lyrium to cope with the joyless and thankless task his sacred duty had become. What once brought him joy, respect, and power, now seemed a burden. Between waking and sleeping, life was a blur of monochromatic gray, drained of purpose and value. There was no anticipation, only living from one day to the next.

            And then he’d been caught smuggling letters.

            And she’d taken away from Maddox what had made him her enemy: his emotions. Samson refused to leave him to the wolves, however, convinced that the Tranquil had something of their old selves deep within, simply locked away. So he’d rescued Maddox when the Gallows ran red with templar and mage blood, and he’d gotten them out of there.

            Only because Corypheus extended a hand.

            Samson came back to the present, wondering for the umpteenth time if his life could have turned out any other way. It was impossible to tell. Had he not agreed to help Maddox, the boy might have lived without the brand, but then…Meredith would have found some other reason to use it on him. Had he not helped Maddox he might have remained in the Order. Samson stared at the ceiling, blinking. The stomach cramps had finally ebbed several days prior, leaving only the headaches as his body coped without the quench of lyrium to his thick and dry tongue.

            But the days in which Hadiza did not see to his care and comfort were few. With her field missions suspended—or what he assumed was suspended—it left her more time to tend to her keep, and subsequently, to him.

            “You don’t have to do this.” Samson told her one morning as she checked his torso for sores and bruises. His ribs still ached, but those were easy to mend. Hadiza said nothing as she completed her circuit of examination, and then stood.

            “Not anymore, no,” she said with a smile, “I’m here to declare you fit for duty, actually.” At Samson’s expression she laughed, a sound so at odds with the dreary atmosphere of his cell, for it was bright and unfettered.

            “You didn’t think I’d let you be a layabout forever, did you?” Hadiza motioned to the washbasin and then to him. “Come on, get dressed, and then it’s out into the fresh air with you.”

            Samson was rooted to the spot, but Hadiza was already stepping out of his cell, giving him the privacy he needed. Samson grumbled something under his breath, and climbed out of bed. He swayed momentarily, but then steadied himself, making his way to the chamber pot to relieve himself, before going to the wash basin. There was no polished pane of a mirror to inspect his face, and the lighting was too poor to make do with his rippling reflection in the washbasin, and so Samson assumed he looked liked hammered shit. After getting dressed, he stepped out into the hall, where Hadiza waited along with two guards.

            “I personally don’t believe having you guarded night and day is necessary,” she told him, “but I think it eases the Commander’s mind to know that you are.” Samson narrowed his eyes at her.

            “You’ve no cause to worry, Inquisitor.” He told her, “I’ve all the bite and strength of a day-old kitten at this rate.” It made her smile, but there was nothing about it to cut at his pride and dignity. It amused her to know that they agreed on one thing: Cullen was high-strung and his suspicions misplaced. Samson wanted to laugh; the man was more like Meredith than he probably thought, and that didn’t bode well for his precious Inquisitor if history was anything to go by.

            “I have extracted pertinent information from you,” Hadiza told him as she led him through the halls and out into the main chamber, “but I do not think you’ve told me all that you know. It is uncertain how much time I have until Corypheus resurfaces again, and I want to be ready when he does.” They passed outside of the keep and onto the stone landing outside its heavy, oaken doors. Hadiza stopped, halting their progress and turning to face Samson.

            “Or, if you tell me how to find him, I want to take the battle to him while he is still significantly weakened by defeat.” At that, Samson laughed. It made their attendant guards nervous, which made him smile.

            “If you think for a moment that Corypheus was significantly weakened by my disgrace, you are sorely mistaken,” Samson told her and Hadiza lifted her chin in defiance, pride shielding her, “I was a vessel meant to pass the knowledge of the Well to him. Barring that, you can be absolutely certain that Corypheus had contingency plans in place should I fail.”

            “And did he tell you…?”

            “Of course not,” Samson muttered, “because you said yourself that once my job was done, I would be dead or killed. I’ve only ever been kept so long as I don’t outlive my usefulness.” He saw it again, the bright shadow passing through her eyes, the façade of her haughty superiority cracking to momentarily reveal the woman beneath. She took a deep breath, exhaled quickly, and kept walking.

            Samson had been confined so long he’d forgotten what it felt like to be gawked at. Lively conversations died on gaping lips as he passed by, only for a susurrus of gossip to rise up in its place, with none too few insults and curses hurled at his back. Hadiza bore it with quiet stoicism, greeting others who deferred to her. Samson watched her interactions with the people, saw her wave at merchants, listened to her inquire after families and children, and then he saw where she was taking him.

            The Inquisition’s stables were impressive to say the least; fortified and well kept, and how not when it housed some of the finest horseflesh in Thedas? Samson watched as Hadiza bounded inside, and heard what sounded like brackish and discordant roar and screech. His brow furrowed in confusion as he followed her inside. He found her nose-to-nose with one of the most hideous creatures he’d ever seen. Hadiza was petting it lovingly, fingertips running over the scaly spines that passed for a mane, tickling under its chin, making it screech in approval.

            “What in Andraste’s flaming sword is _that_?” Samson demanded, breaking Hadiza’s spell and making her pull away. The creature’s teeth were clearly designed for rending the flesh of prey animals—man included—but instead it snagged at Hadiza’s sleeve, tugging affectionately…as if it were a real horse.

            “That,” a new voice said, “is a dracolisk, and one of the reasons working with the Inquisition is so damned interesting.” Samson turned to see a tall, much older man standing in the stable. His head was shaved, but his mustache and beard were thick, gray, and well groomed. Hadiza smiled at the man fondly, like a daughter would a father.

            “Master Dennet!” She cried, “I trust all is well with you?”

            “As well as can be, Inquisitor,” the man replied, coming toward her to clasp her arm in greeting, “taking your wingless dragon out for a pleasure jaunt?” Hadiza bit her lip, shaking her head.

            “Not at present, ser,” she replied, and then gestured to Samson to come forward. Samson went to her, as sure as if she held a lead that snaked around his throat. It was so easy to simply obey her. And not because he was her prisoner…which was easy to forget given her predilection for treating him as if he mattered.

            “Master Dennet this is—“

            “I know who that is, Inquisitor,” the horsemaster said gruffly, “and if you’ve brought him here because of why I think you did, the answer is no.”

            “Master Dennet, please!” Hadiza pleaded, but she was still smiling and Samson knew she’d likely win this argument, “I know you’ve been shorthanded, what with your men still in the Wilds aiding in the retrieval of mounts that lost their riders. I’ve no place for him right now…and he’s not hale enough for what I need him for in the undercroft save small things.” The horsemaster seemed skeptical but gave Samson an once-over.

            “Not hale enough for the undercroft, but hale enough to shovel shit out of my stables.” He stole a glance at Hadiza, who was still smiling, her eyes wide and hopeful. Samson could not believe it. The man was going to cave.

            “You know, if I’d had children, I’d not be as susceptible to this as I am.” He muttered, “Very well, I’ll take him on. Can’t promise he can stay, but if you insist on putting him to work, then I can’t very well fight it, can I?” Hadiza clapped her hands together.

            “Then it’s settled!” She beamed, “Samson, meet your new handler: Master Dennet. He is our horsemaster and at times can even be a kind and forgiving man.” The horsemaster shot her a look then and she smiled back.

            “He’ll be putting you to work here in the stables. In the meanwhile, I’ve got an Inquisition to run. Try not to get underfoot…or fist.  I’ll be along if I’ve need of you.” Samson watched her go, the guards shuffling uncertain on their feet. They’d been assigned to escort him about the premises and neither the Commander nor Inquisitor had given orders to do otherwise. Samson sighed and turned his gaze to Master Dennet.

            “Well,” the horsemaster said, “I suppose I ought to lay down the ground rules before we get started, eh?”

            “That would be a wise decision, horsemaster,” Samson replied, trying to keep the sardonic tone out of his voice, but Dennet caught it anyway. He motioned to the stables, which housed a veritable menagerie of horseflesh. As it turned out, the dracolisk wasn’t the only exotic mount the Inquisition had in its keeping.

            “I was horsemaster to the Arl of Redcliffe for over thirty years before the Inquisition took me on,” Dennet explained, “and never have I worked with stranger mounts than the ones the Inquisitor keeps bringing back.” Samson hazarded a glance at the dracolisk, his expression twisted in a rictus of perplexity and disgust.

            “Oh don’t worry,” Dennet laughed, “the Inquisitor tends to that hellion herself. Mind yourself around it, though. I hear they’ve a nasty bite when provoked.”

            “I don’t think you’ve cause to worry about that, horsemaster,” Samson said slowly, not taking his gaze off the scaly mount. He blinked when Dennet thrust a large shovel into his hands.

            “Good. Then your first task will be to muck out the stalls and refresh the feed.” Dennet walked away, presumably to attend to some other duty that required his attention. Samson and his two escorts were left alone to the sound of nickering horses, and the occasional snort of the more exotic mounts.

            “Well,” Samson muttered, “no sense in burning daylight standing about.”

            To work, then.

  

* * *

 

 

            “Are you sure you must go alone, Morrigan?” Hadiza asked, “If your vague description is anything to go by, this task will be wrought with peril, and I’d much rather not lose you when it’s preventable.” Morrigan’s expression was stoic, but there was a ghost of a smile on her lips, her feline-yellow eyes alight with amusement.

            “Your concern is greatly appreciated, Inquisitor, and not entirely unfounded,” she replied, “but I am afraid I must decline. If this task is indeed perilous, then it would be prudent to not drag vital members of the Inquisition into it. I have survived a long time on my own, you needn’t trouble yourself.”

            Hadiza hesitated, and held her tongue, opting instead to sip her tea from the delicate porcelain cup in her hands. They were sitting in Josephine’s office, as the ambassador’s makeshift parlor was perhaps the only place to have such a comfortable and private meeting, barring Vivienne’s alcove.

            “If that is your wish, Lady Morrigan,” Hadiza conceded at last, “then I bid you leave to go, though I’ll not let you go without knowing it does not ease my mind that you go alone. But I trust your judgment.”

            “Your confidence is inspiring, Inquisitor,” Morrigan did not laugh, but there was a wry inflection limning her voice, “truly. I’ll depart ere the moon rises.”

            “How long will you be gone, do you think?” Hadiza asked, leaning back in her chair after setting her teacup back on the tray. Morrigan was silent a moment, and turned her head to gaze into the fire. Hadiza longed to breach the other woman’s thoughts, and wondered what Morrigan risked when taking the knowledge of the Well of Sorrows into herself. Hadiza thought of Morrigan’s son, Kieran, and her heart ached for the woman.

            “I cannot readily say,” Morrigan said quietly, “only that it will not be a pleasure jaunt through the woods, of a certainty. I will do my best to maintain correspondence, but I make no promises, Inquisitor.” She moved to stand, easing onto her feet with lissome grace. Hadiza stood as well, albeit not quite as graceful.

            “Of course,” she agreed, “and please do not hesitate to ask for aid should you have need of it. I’ll pray on your safe return.” They made their way toward the door, but before she opened it, Morrigan turned to face Hadiza, her expression grave.

            “It may be that this is folly, but I fear we are pressed for time,” she said and Hadiza’s brows went up in silent inquiry, “there may be a way to find Corypheus, but I cannot gauge your level of skill to assure your success.”

            “At this point, I shall employ every mage within the keep if need be. If you’ve answers, I’m all ears.” Morrigan’s lip quirked briefly and then she sighed.

            “There is a school of magic, banned by the Chantry of course, but still practiced in the more remote and safe parts of the world. It is old magic but there may be one such who can aid you in tapping its depths.”

            “Dorian.” Hadiza said firmly, “He was not bound by the Chantry, as Vivienne, myself, and so many were. He would know something. What is this magic?”

            “It is called scrying magic, Inquisitor,” Morrigan told her, “and it is dangerous not because of the act itself, but because of the potential of it backfiring.” Hadiza was quiet, hesitant, weighing all that she’d learned in the Circle’s sheltered tower with all that she’d witnessed and accomplished as the Inquisitor. She gave a firm inclined of her head. Morrigan took her hand off the door’s handle.

            “You are unlearned and so you will require a medium. But the magic allows the wielder to conduct a thorough search of individuals in the world. All you would require is the essence of the individual you seek.” Hadiza’s eyes went wide.

            “Blood magic?” She asked, fearful and apprehensive, “Morrigan if you’re suggesting what I th—“ And Morrigan scoffed.

            “You Circle mages are not unlike fish in a pond that has been disturbed by a cast stone,” she said, almost sneering, “I made no suggestion of blood magic. Do not assume that. I merely said _essence_. Something that holds a bit of the spirit of whom you seek within it, if you will. But you first require a medium and a room in which to scry.” Morrigan looked around, wrinkling her nose. She had been too long amidst Orlesian decadence and opulence. Skyhold was but a crude attempt at what she’d witnessed in Orlais. Hadiza nodded.

            “And where can I find such things?” She asked. Morrigan made a sound that was almost laughter, opening the door at last.

            “You are a Circle mage, are you not?” She asked, and Hadiza nodded, brows knit in consternation, “Then you know where to find such knowledge, then.” And with that, Morrigan left Hadiza with far more questions than she’d ever had during her time in the Circle. After a moment, when Morrigan’s presence had completely left the area, Hadiza took off at a brisk walk toward the main library in search of Dorian.


	6. Chapter 6

           The work was hard, of that Samson knew. When he wasn’t mucking the stables, he was helping to carry heavy loads, fetch water, feed, and other supplies for the stables to run smoothly. Dennet had not been exaggerating when he said he was shorthanded, but Samson did not mind. He was no petulant child, to find displeasure in being forced to do manual labor. Nor was he some stuff-shirt nobleman, to cringe at the thought of getting his hands dirty. No, instead, he allowed his thoughts to streamline through his work, finding absolution in the sweat and dirt of hard labor. He relished the soreness in his limbs at the end of the day, the smell of the earth and manure served to keep the weight of his bloodguilt at bay. He could ignore the ridicule and looks of disgust because the rhythm of his work kept him from collapsing in on himself.

            He suspected the Inquisitor had known what she was about, putting him to work like this, but he wouldn’t dare give her that much credit.

            Instead, Samson focused on his work, and at first, he was content to keep to himself. In fact, he might have been content to keep to himself till the end of his days had it not been for the apple.

            He’d been mending a saddle when it hit him, a dull thud at the back of his head. Samson’s initial reaction was a snarl before he turned around, scowling and searching for the culprit, knowing his momentary anger to be impotent. What he saw immediately stymied the curse coiled around his tongue. Standing in the stables was a young girl, possibly no more than ten years old, with a crop of curly red hair. Her eyes were large and dark, and she had a dusting of freckles across her face beneath smudges of dirt. In her arms was a small basket of apples. Samson sighed harshly, and tried to rearrange his face, figuring there was no use in being upset with a child.

            “Something troubling you, child?” He asked gruffly and the girl gasped, seemingly surprised that he could speak, let alone to her, and then bolted, dropping two apples in her wake. Samson watched her go, sucking his teeth before returning to his work.

            The day passed with little to break up the monotony of the day, save for the few times Samson spoke with Master Dennet.

            “Not easy, is it?” Dennet asked him when he caught Samson nursing his sore hands, age and lyrium withdrawal robbing him of what he previously thought to be his own might. Samson glanced up, then down.

            “Nothing in life ever is,” he muttered, “at least from my perspective.”

            Dennet glanced down at him, “Better get tended to. Inquisitor might want you being productive but you’re no good to me if you’re sickly.”

            “I’m not—“ Samson began, slightly offended, but Dennet’s frown stymied his anger, “…I’m not as sick as I was, or as I would be.” Dennet nodded, clapping him on the shoulder.

            “Inquisitor’s always had a soft heart. Knew it from the moment she stumbled into my house, desperate for horses. She’s of a mind that everyone just needs proper care. Get those blisters tended to.”

            Samson sighed, and left the stables. As soon as he was out in the dying light of the evening, his two escorts joined him, further agitating him.

            “You know, if I’d wanted to try something, I’d not do it unless I had a clear plan of escape,” Samson said to them, but they didn’t respond, merely did their best to look stoic and unfeeling despite the obvious feel of _green_ in their youthful faces. He was reminded of his days as a fledgling templar, sword still too heavy for it to feel natural in his hand, armor so polished and gleaming you could tell he’d never seen a fight, and his best attempts at looking serious when the knight-commander was about. Samson had always had an easy-going sense of humor, but time and circumstance had robbed him of his willingness to laugh.

            When was the last time he’d truly laughed amongst friends? Maker, when was the last time he’d truly had friends? Samson couldn’t recall, and what bright spots in his life he did have were muddled by regret, bitterness, and a growing thirst that further made it hard for him to ruminate.

            The guards escorted him to the undercroft, where he saw Dagna and another individual clad in what he assumed was protective gear. Sparks shot up from the table they were bent over, and he heard garbled noises that had to be them talking. The taller figure looked up, face obscured by an iron mask with a single visor. A gloved hand reached up to push it back, revealing the Inquisitor’s face, shining with sweat and smudged with oil. She smiled and Samson tried to focus his gaze on anything else in the room.

            “Samson!” She said, “What are you doing here?” For a moment he didn’t answer, merely taking her in. She was layered in a blacksmith’s apron, her hands gloved up to the elbow, looking every bit as common as the next person, but to Samson she shone like a star. Hadiza Trevelyan could not look drab if she tried, smiling like that. Samson held up his hands, revealing the broken blisters. Hadiza squinted and then laughed.

            “Oh no! Ah, I guess it’s no secret that I was your bed nurse before, hm?” She turned to Dagna, “Can you continue without me? It seems I’ve other duties to attend.” Dagna didn’t push her mask off of her face, but looked up at Samson instead. A muffled laugh came from behind the iron.

            “No trouble at all, Your Worship. In fact, I have a suggestion you might like.” At that, she did push her mask back, glancing between the Inquisitor and the disgraced general. She smiled cheerily, and continued.

            “Sourpuss is still a templar, disgraced or not,” she said, “and he’s probably got enough lyrium in him to still use his abilities.” Hadiza blinked, glancing at Samson.

            “Is that true?” She asked, a bit wary. Samson shrugged.

            “It’s not unheard of for templars to retain their abilities for some time even after they stop taking lyrium,” he said, “but what’s this all about? You’ve templars aplenty. What do you need with me?”

            “Oh that’s easy,” Dagna laugh, “she needs someone to guard her.”

            “What?” Samson was incredulous. Hadiza sighed, unstrapping her iron mask and setting it aside.

            “What she means is that I am on the verge of a breakthrough to find Corypheus and that I cannot trust an overzealous templar to aid me in my quest.” She explained gently, removing her gloves. Samson laughed, more of a bark of derision than anything.

            “So you what? You don’t trust the men and women you gathered under your aegis but you trust me? You’re a bit touched in the head, Inquisitor.” Hadiza’s eyes narrowed, her gaze alone cutting him to ribbons and Samson met it with a challenge of his own. He’d not be cowed by her anger.

            Her sympathy, however…

            “Do not misunderstand me, Samson. I do not trust you…not yet. But I do trust your pragmatism. I trust your questioning of the faith.” In that moment, Samson understood the why of it, but he needed to know what she was about. Not that he could decline even if he did know, but he was sure she’d respect his decision not to aid her.

            _I do not trust you…not yet_.

            Samson wanted to laugh. Feeding him hope instead of despair. Maker the Inquisitor was either a great deal less self-aware than he thought, or a very clever manipulator. He suspected it was the former.

            “So what do you want me to do?” He asked, looking down at his torn and ruined hands. Hadiza looked at them too, then back at his face.

            “Come with me.” She said, removing her apron and folding it over the back of a stone chair. She made her way to the undercroft’s door, gesturing for him to follow. Samson did, to the tune of Dagna’s knowing laughter as she put her mask back on to resume whatever mysterious task they’d been up to.

            Hadiza walked with a brisk pace, as set on her destination as a comet, ignoring the murmur of the crowd as Samson trailed in her wake. Her hair had been pulled into a single braid, slapping against her back as she made her way downstairs. Samson hadn’t been down there all day, but he knew the path to his cell by rote, now. Hadiza led him in the opposite direction, toward the cellar, but beyond it, past the small study, so far removed from all of Skyhold, and toward another door that opened into a small but well-lit chamber. She stopped him at the ingress with a firm arm.

Samson studied the room, which had only been recently swept and scrubbed down for use. Torches lined the walls, providing adequate lighting; a large desk in the far corner was stacked with books, scrolls, inkwells, quills, and other writing materials. Another table with four chairs was against the adjacent wall was clearly for dining or entertaining guests, and two large high-backed arm chair sat in the opposite corner, a small round table between them. What was most surprising was not the room itself, but the center of it. White chalk had been used to inscribe the floor with concentric circles and symbols. Samson was intimate with magic and his knowledge far exceeded what was standard for a templar, but he’d never seen symbols like this. It was not a summoning circle, but it still gave him an uneasy feeling.

“Morrigan tipped me off to a school of magic that would allow me to track Corypheus,” Hadiza explained, turning to him, “it’s called scrying magic. But because I lack the amount of time to truly study it, most of this will be a dangerous foray into the unknown. Dorian has agreed to aid me and has already been inquiring about any tomes to build the focus I need to cast the spell.”

“And where do I figure into all of this, Inquisitor?” Samson asked quietly, his eyes still on the symbol in the center of the room. Hadiza was quiet a moment, and then turned to face the empty room. She lifted her right hand—the unmarked one—and turned it palm up. And then, she spoke a word.

“ _Gaskiya_.”

The chalk symbols flared, shifting like the gyro of an _astrarium_ , flaring and burning into the stone floor. Hadiza closed her hand into a fist and the flare died. In place of the chalk, the circle was etched and burned into the ground, lending it a degree of permanence that made Samson uneasy.

“A nice display,” he said evenly, “but not an answer.”

“It is, in a sense.” Hadiza said tonelessly, “You are far more knowledgeable about the arcane than Cullen gives you credit for.”

“Anyone with eyes can see you overload your shields and that’s why you got knocked on your—“ Samson stopped himself when he saw Hadiza’s knowing smile.

“Anyone with eyes can see I miscalculated, but only those learned in the arcane can see how.” She said simply, “I need your help, Samson, but I’ll not force you if you are ill-inclined.” Her lip curled into a smug smirk, “Or simply ill.”

Samson shot her a look but said nothing. He knew this was a test of some sort. He had nothing to prove to her or her Inquisition. And yet…and yet part of him _longed_ for the opportunity. He wanted to prove he was worth more than what his misdeeds painted of him. He knew he wasn’t worth it, but Maker she’d not have helped him if he wasn’t, surely. He found himself at a crossroads in that moment, wanting to turn away from her, to see her beat herself against the obdurate mountain that was Corypheus’ might, but knew that if she lost this war, then they would _all_ lose in the end. He took a deep breath, shutting his eyes, filling his lungs with doubt and hesitation and fear. When he exhaled and opened his eyes, the path was clearer.

“Alright,” he said at last, “ _alright_. I’ll play templar to your mage, Inquisitor. But if you ask anything of me that is not within my nature or power to give, I want your word that I can terminate this arrangement and go back to…whatever hard labor awaits me.”

Hadiza inclined her head once, wordless.

“I need to hear it.” He said, a bit more forcefully than he intended.

“You’ve my word that should I cross a line you are unwilling to follow me over, then you may terminate the arrangement and resume your status in the general prison population.” She said solemnly, but then, “But if such a time should come where I reach a line you are unwilling to cross, and I become compromised, you have my permission to detain me. And if should the worst come to pass, you may kill me if need be.”

That sobered him, then immediately chilled his spine.

Hadiza did not seem terribly bothered by the prospect of having her former enemy be the architect of her death should her power prove to be too dangerous, however. He watched her as she stepped into the room, felt the tingle of magic as her wards wavered around her body, carefully constructed like elegant jewelry. She spoke another word, low and whispery, and beckoned Samson to join her. Passing through the door’s ingress was like stepping into another realm. The wards whispered against his skin, checking and rechecking for signs of intrusion. What traps she’d laid at the door would likely not kill an intruder, but it would certainly incapacitate them. He could tell from the way the hairs on the back of his neck rose in response to the charged potential energy.

“Oh!” Hadiza turned so swiftly that he almost ran into her, “Before I forget again.” She reached forward, slow and tentative, for his hands. “May I?” Samson hesitated. No one had ever truly asked his permission before. He offered his ragged hands, suddenly aware of their two very different lifestyles. She fought hard, he knew, was graceful in battle…for a mage. She wielded her staff as an extension of herself, the wicked blade cutting a preternatural arc before her, weaving patterns of death as she casted and battled. Yet her hands, when he looked at them, were like satin, elegant fingers and nail the color of sunset.

A soft glow of bluish light enveloped them, and he thought he heard the whisper of chimes as the cool magic seeped into his hands, blossoming in his flesh in the form of that familiar golden warmth. The blisters faded as the flesh reknit itself, leaving only the hard callouses in their wake.

Her fingertips brushed his palm gently, and he froze, swallowing hard. Hadiza’s smile was as soft as inebriation, the glow around her hands fading, ebbing away like a tide until it left her holding his hands in the torchlight of the room.

“I like to think,” she murmured, “that I could cast a spell like this over all of Thedas and have done with it.” She laughed, more at herself than anything, and he listened, curious and nervous. Whatever was happening now was something he knew he should pay attention to.

“Cullen thinks I am too idealistic,” she said sadly, “that I do not understand when to leave off a lost cause and salvage what I can.” Samson’s jaw set. So Cullen still bore him a grudge, eh? Well, all the better. Helping his Inquisitor with her mysterious task would give him pleasure in some capacity. She’d chosen him over Cullen, the man who clearly staked some sort of emotional claim on her.

“What do you think, Samson?” She asked him, “Am I a fool for having faith in you…faith you seem to not have in yourself?” Samson met her gaze sharply, breathing deep.

“It doesn’t matter what I think, Inquisitor, or where my faith lies.” He said simply. Hadiza frowned, releasing his hands, taking the last bit of warmth with her. Samson clung to the memory of her touch like a drowning man adrift amidst the wreckage of his thoughts, wishing he’d kept his fool mouth shut.

“I grow weary of folk telling me that it does not mater what they think, believe, or want when I ask them,” she said crossly, “I’d not ask if I believed that to be true.” She crossed her arms, “But if you are disinclined to tell me, then that is answer enough.” Samson wondered at his next words, wondered if he should have done more to control it, but it was too late.

“I don’t think you’re idealistic,” he told her, “just very naïve in the ways of the world. You think the Chantry won’t turn on you when you’re done saving their asses from the fire?” Hadiza’s eyes flickered, the only sign that she was nonplussed. Samson thought it was time to open her eyes to the truth.

“Here’s what I think: you’re going to find Corypheus, probably going to thrash him something fierce when you do. It’ll be a hard fight, but I think you’ve got the chops to come out on top if a bit banged up. The Inquisition will be hailed as the saviors of Thedas, and you’ll all rebuild. In a year or so, the hype will die down, and then as if on schedule, people will start to ask why you all are still around.”

Hadiza’s brows knit in consternation, but she was silent. Samson took it as a sign to continue.

“You’re a gentle type, so you’ll probably argue that the Inquisition exists to protect people, but then they’ll turn around and ask about all the people in your organization, all the land you’ve taken. _Why you spared me_.”

“What is your point?” Hadiza asked, irritation bleeding into her voice from the wound to her pride he’d just dealt. Samson smiled at her, toothy and smug.

“The point is: this world loves to chew up its heroes and spit them out when the flavor’s gone. The point is, Inquisitor, when all this is over, and your precious Inquisition is no longer viewed as a protectorate but a threat, will you fight or will you flee? Will the thought of no longer being held in esteem make you go to seed? Or will you disband your organization quietly with no fuss?”

Hadiza pursed her lips. As wounded as her pride was, he had a point. All the great tales were thus—the good ones anyway. Had Kirkwall not turned on the Champion when Meredith was defeated? Was the Hero of Ferelden’s legacy not long forgotten these ten years past? What would she do when this was over? And why _did_ she spare him? She wondered if Cullen had been right. Wondered if what she saw in Samson’s eyes during his trial had been real or just her compassion showing her something that was not there.

“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it, Samson,” she said calmly, “and perhaps you will be there when I do. Either way, I’d much rather deal with the immediate threat.” She turned, walking toward the desk to retrieve a tome. It was heavy, banded with iron, and bore on its cover an embossed symbol. Sharp curved likes, stylized with filigree around it; the book was thick and yellowed with age, and the lock on it was broken off, the iron warped by what could only have been magic.

“This is the _Arcanus Apparatus_ ,” Hadiza explained, “a treatise banned and outlawed by the Chantry for it contains the descriptions of items and their uses, as well as how to make some of them. This is the only copy of the treatise that remains, and I have found the answer to finding Corpyheus.”

Samson stared at the heavy book, and felt his own curiosity stir. Hadiza opened the book, turning to a marked page and showing him the contents. Samson squinted at the drawing of what looked to be a mask or crown. It was elegantly wrought, but the design was severe and foreign, calling to mind the bite of a lashing whip, the bars of a cage, and there, the chains of the enslaved.

It was quintessentially Tevinter in its design. He laughed because only Tevinter would have a treatise banned by the Chantry containing what were undoubtedly forbidden magics. Hadiza smiled, tapping the drawing with a finger.

“Dagna is offering to help me craft this. It is a diadem of sorts, but more importantly, it is a focus. It will amplify my magic and allow me to scour Thedas and find Corypheus.” Samson was vaguely familiar with the magic she spoke of, but not enough to voice an opinion other than apprehension, so he remained silent.

“Again,” he said, “what has this to do with me?”

Hadiza snapped the book shut.

“The spell requires something belonging to the one I search for, or something saturated in their essence.” She explained and Samson frowned.

“Blood magic.” He said and began to take a step away. Hadiza halted him gently.

“No,” she said softly, “I thought that was what the spell required as well. Blood, while more potent, is not necessary. But I do need you to complete the spell. Or part of you, anyway.” Samson’s expression went from anger to confusion.

“So what? Three hairs plucked from my head or some such? This is wild magic you tamper with, Inquisitor.”

“Hence your two-fold purpose, dear Samson.” She told him with a slow smile. Samson did not like the way he felt when she dressed his name thus, did not like how his heartbeat upped its cadence, or how his blood rushed in his ears with her hand on his arm. He steadied his breathing enough to free himself of her presence, and then shook his head.

“You want a man that no longer exists, Inquisitor. I am not the templar I once was. I’ve no right to the title.” Hadiza tilted her head, and he saw the look again. The sympathy in her eyes, the weight of disappointment as her faith in him was spurned anew by his own self-doubt…and self-loathing.

“Samson.” His name was a noose around his neck, a noose and a leash, and the lead ended on the tip of her tongue. He met her eyes, a maelstrom of emotions eating away at him. Hatred—hatred that he could be brought low by one such as her; hatred for himself for always having his reach exceed his grasp, aspiring to something noble and redeeming, and failing…always failing. What plan did the Maker have for him that he would try and fail so much in his life? Where did he go wrong? What had he done to be brought this low while Cullen, whose path was no different than his own, was raised up, golden and beloved?

What did she see in him?

“If I did not think you strong enough or capable, I would not ask. But I do need your help, and perhaps this is an opportunity to begin to set things to right.” Hadiza’s voice held no derision, no cruelty. It was neither a plea nor declaration. Samson sighed, weighing his options. He had few if any of those lately.

“Look at me, Inquisitor,” he told her, “and tell me what I’ve done in my life that ever ended in anything but failure.”

She did look at him, then, and for once, the mask of the Inquisitor was stripped away. Samson wasn’t looking at the figure who judged him, seated on her throne like a darker effigy of Andraste herself. No, he was looking at the woman…at Hadiza Trevelyan. She searched his face for answers and pulled back from him slowly.

“You lived.” She said. “For all your despair, bitterness, and misery, you lived. I am of a mind that it takes a great deal more courage to live and bear the weight of one’s mistakes and sins than to die and never have to deal with them at all.”

“The Maker will judge me.” Samson said sullenly.

“The Maker will forgive you,” Hadiza reminded him, “because the Maker will understand what is written on your heart. I judged you because you hurt others and justice must be done.”

“And you? Are you so holy to speak for the Maker? Will you issue out benediction and forgiveness?”

“I never said I would forgive you, Samson.” Silence, then, as he considered what that meant. Though she looked upon him with tenderness and compassion, he had done nothing to win her forgiveness. So why treat him with any compassion at all?

“You said it wasn’t about vengeance for you,” he said, “if not vengeance, then what?”

“Justice.” Hadiza said. “If I had thought taking your head would mean justice was done, then I would have done so in the Wilds when we defeated you. But…I do not think more bloodshed will bring peace.” Samson wondered how much time had passed since she’d led him to this place, and found he did not care.

“You will eventually have to face the ones you’ve harmed, Samson,” Hadiza told him, setting the book back on the desk, “and I believe when that time comes, it will serve more than mounting your head on a pike.”

“And how will you face the ones you’ve harmed, Inquisitor?” He asked her, “How will you bear the weight of the lives you’ve taken and lost in your rise to power?” Hadiza turned to him, considering him again with a measuring gaze. Her chin lifted, and Samson thought for a moment he stood in the presence of divinity, or perhaps a queen. But she was mortal, and mortals died. He could have killed her then if he wanted to, but no doubt she’d planned for such a grim contingency.

“Oh,” she said at last, “with courage, Samson. And dignity.”


	7. Chapter 7

When he wasn’t helping Hadiza he was doing other work around Skyhold. While his presence had come to be born with mild but begrudging tolerance, his efforts to assist won him no supporters in the weeks he spent rebuilding the ruined tower on the southern wall. It was not that he was trying to curry favor with the denizens of the keep, but he would be lying—to himself and the Maker—if he said their veiled disdain stung more than outright hostility. He could withstand the physical abuses done to him by the guards, who made no show of hiding their hatred of him, but the secret looks, the whispers that struck between his shoulders like well-placed knives, and the cold disregard? It was a bitter reminder of the station he seemed ever destined to occupy in this world.

            The stables were quiet, and there he could shut out the noise of his punishment with hard work. Hadiza had spoken truly: his being alive was a far more grueling punishment than his execution would have been. Having to face the silent judgment of those he wronged hurt, but he would endure it as he had endured all things. As he shoveled manure from the stables he froze, shifting the shovel to his left hand. He turned in time to bat away the apple the young girl hurled at him. She gasped and Samson did nothing to hide his wolfish smile.

            “Your ma know you’re wasting good apples on me?” He asked her and she remained silent, her expression the picture of childish petulance and defiance. She lifted her chin, dark eyes glittering. Samson shifted his stance, relaxing and leaning on the shovel. The girl reached for another apple in her basket.

            “You should put your body into it more,” Samson suggested, “you get more force and distance that way. Guaranteed to hurt.”

            “My mother says you should have died.” She said and Samson’s brows went up in mock surprise. He’d been getting that quite a bit lately. He was beginning to wonder if the Inquisitor _was_ a bit touched in the head for sparing him.

            “Does she now? And why’s that?” He wondered how much the denizens of Skyhold had sheltered their children from the truth. In Kirkwall, children had no such luxury. Perhaps here was no different. Didn’t the Inquisition stand for truth and justice or some other drivel?

            “You hurt a lot of people,” the girl reasoned, “but…” Samson’s gaze sharpened, interested and focused of the child. The girl seemed to be thinking, trying to get the words out properly.

            “But the other man hurt a lot of people too, and he’s not so bad. I think my mother even _likes_ him. And she doesn’t like mages.” The girl’s gaze wandered about, unfocused, and then she saw the dracolisk. Samson was wary in that moment.

            “What’s your name, girl?” He asked and she didn’t seem to hear him, intent on the fearsome creature in its stall.

            “Sajiah,” she said absently, “and you’re General Samson.” She turned to face him and Samson shook his head.

            “Just Samson, now.” He said brusquely, “And you shouldn’t be talking to me. Your mother wouldn’t much like that.” And he wasn’t too keen on being blamed for a child’s disobedience atop his heap of other heinous crimes. Sajiah wrinkled her nose.

            “My mother is too busy working to care,” she said matter-of-factly, “and I talk to whom I want.” Samson had to applaud her insolence; she’d go far in life with a head that hard. He was about to retort when Hadiza rounded the corner, speaking to someone—a messenger—and giving orders wrapped up in her bright laughter.

            “—tell him I said that. See if he relents.” She was saying, pausing in the doorway to the stable. Sajiah turned to look at her, her dark eyes wide and round, mouth agape. Samson had to wonder what it was like for the commonfolk, especially the ones who truly believed the Inquisitor was the Herald of Andraste. Hadiza was clad in riding gear, lightly armored, and when she turned to face him, Samson wasn’t sure what expression he should have worn, so he settled on nothing.

            “Your Worship!” Sajiah cried and kneeled. Hadiza’s eyes went wide and she gestured for the girl to stand up.

            “None of that, child,” she scolded with a smile, “I am just a woman. No kneeling.” Sajiah seemed momentarily starstruck, but then sobered.

            “So you aren’t the Herald of Andraste?” She asked. Hadiza shook her head.

            “No, just a very lucky mage.” She answered, squeezing the girl’s shoulders. Sajiah blinked, looking around.

            “Maybe that’s why mother’s so soft on him…” She muttered then turned to Samson, “I don’t think you’re so bad, now.” She squinted at him and he seemed drawn from his thoughts as if surfacing from being underwater. Sajiah smirked.

            “You look like my mother when she looks at the mage.” She said cryptically and walked off. Hadiza watched her go, puzzled, then turned to look at Samson. He was sure he looked an absolute mess to her. His hair was stringy with sweat, his shirt stained with mud and shit alike, and he likely smelled very much like the inside of a full chamberpot. Not to mention he was feeling worse for wear, more so than usual. He felt as if his body were coming apart at the joints. For all that, Hadiza bestowed upon him a gentle smile.

            “Samson.” Always with his name she greeted him, as if his name held within it all she needed to say. Samson felt increasingly disgusting as he wallowed in her pale gaze. Hadiza did not seem to notice, and she drifted nearer to the stall where her dracolisk was kept. It hissed quietly, snorting into her hair, sharp teeth clacking as it made an attempt at chatter, telling its mistress all that had gone on in her absence. Hadiza lovingly stroked the spines on its head, and Samson watched its yellow eyes flicker in pleasure.

            “Inquisitor.” Samson said belatedly. Hadiza continued to pamper her hideous mount, speaking to it in soft, soothing tones.

            “Not today, Argo,” she said, disappointed, “Nyx has been cooped up too long, and the weather’s getting colder. I need his legs.” Samson was familiar with the mounts by now, and he watched her leave the dracolisk for another stall. Within was a Friesian as black as pitch, with a mane that resembled the same curl as Hadiza’s hair. It stood a full 17 hands tall, its pitch coat gleaming in the sunlight that filtered through. Nyx also snorted into Hadiza’s hair, only it nudged her affectionately, making her stumble and laugh.

            “Alright, alright,” she acceded, “let’s get you saddled and then we’ll go and stretch your legs.” She turned to Samson, “You mind?” She gestured to the Friesian and Samson rolled his eyes.

            “My pleasure, Inquisitor,” he sneered, but the venom in it had been drained before the words even left his mouth, “will you require anything else?” Hadiza did not seem to care for his sardonic tone, moving about and fetching her crop and spurs with practiced ease.

            “No, that will be all,” she paused, glancing his way over one velvet-clad shoulder, “unless you wish to accompany me on my herb gathering.” Samson froze in his tracks, a bridle in his hand. Traveling alone with the Inquisitor down into the valley to gather herbs? It was innocuous, yes, but to him it presented a difficult situation. He could go, and he would be able to breathe the free air, but there would be guards at his back, watching his every move, recording his every word. Doubtless they already kept the Commander abreast of the Inquisitor soliciting his aid. Unless…

            “What do you need me there for?” Samson asked, “Last I heard you were rather proficient at picking elfroot on your own.” At Hadiza’s grin he chuckled. It was the first time they’d truly found humor at the same time. Usually she was frowning at him, or he was scowling at her.

            “Perhaps I merely want the pleasure of your company, Samson,” she told him and his tongue curled to the roof of his mouth to stop his confused sputter. She smiled knowingly, waiting for him to finish readying her mount. He did so quickly, laying the saddle pad along the horse’s elegantly sloped back, and then the saddle. He checked the girth, ensuring it was secured, and then proceeded to ready the bridle and reins, handing them over to her as she led the Friesian into the open grounds. Samson watched her go, and she glanced at him over her shoulder.

            “Or maybe another time, then.” She said, and left him standing there, her smile imprinted on his memory, her laughter a bright sound like chiming crystals, drowning out whatever thoughts attempted to find purchase in his mind. He wondered, briefly, what it might be like to press his lips against the swan arc of her throat, to feel the laughter beneath his questing mouth, thrumming through his skin. He wondered if her skin felt as satiny and smooth as it looked, if she would laugh when his fingers were tangled in her mass of hair. He swallowed hard as the thoughts became increasingly more erotic and wondered how long it had been since desire last surged in his blood like a sickness.

            As he worked, the thoughts did not leave. Her mouth was always curved into an almost-smile, and she shaped his name with care, giving it meaning without ever saying much. But then, ah what might his name sound like when soaked in passion? How could he drag it out of her in a moan, her limbs tangled around him, her breath coming in labored pants as she gasped for air to fill her strained lungs. He wondered how she’d fit in his arms. Like a dream, no doubt. She moved with consummate grace from what he saw, and she was a skilled dancer—the Orlesians still talked about her presence at the Winter Palace. He knew without having to think that Hadiza was the kind of woman one took their time with.

            His thoughts turned to Cullen, oddly enough, and he wondered if the Commander had shirked his hesitant fear and embraced passion and desire with a little more eagerness. From the way he stared at the Inquisitor, Samson didn’t doubt it. But there was something off about it, or perhaps it was merely an old jealousy coming to the surface. Either way, Samson knew the hot pleasure of fantasizing that afternoon, wondering where Hadiza had ridden off to, letting his mind take him farther. She was comely in a pair of riding breeches, long legs encased in high, polished black boots. He’d not missed the crop in her hand either, the way she tapped it against her thigh thoughtfully.

            Maker, he needed a cold bath and a strong drink.

            “You about done contemplating your navel, or are you going to work any time soon?” Dennet’s voice was a scythe through the haze of Samson’s imagination and he came to with a start.

            “What?” He asked lamely and Dennet stared at him, his face hard, but then shook his head.

            “You don’t usually wander off your work like that,” Dennet said, “what is their name that’s got you looking 20 years your junior and just as lovestruck?”

            Samson laughed.

            “There’s no one. And I’m not lovestruck.” He snarled. Dennet stared at him in silence again, then snorted derisively. When he made no further inquiry, Samson relaxed, relieved. He was not lovestruck, not in truth. He was…intrigued, at least. Hadiza had shown him compassion where others had spurned him. When the other healers refused to touch him, she had tended to his wounds and ailments herself, and not once did she complain or tell him he should be grateful for it.

            But he was, Maker he was grateful. Grateful for the memory of her hands, cool and soothing, moving over his skin, spreading the golden warmth of healing magic, alleviating the ache of decades of exhaustion that was never given leave to simply release. He’d slept in those weeks, when the cramping had finally stopped, slept better than he had in years. His bed was no better, but his body felt at ease. With Hadiza by his side, Samson would dare to say he’d felt safe, almost protected.

            It was nightfall when Hadiza returned. Samson had tended to his work for the day, had eaten his last bite of supper for the evening, and was confined to his cell. He tried to pretend he wasn’t longing to see her in some way. He tried to pretend she wasn’t wrapped in Cullen’s arms, smiling and laughing, smudged in dirt and dust, smelling of precious herbs. Even now, his mind sought to carry him to thoughts he’d rather shy from. Cullen’s hands along her skin, Cullen’s scarred mouth on her throat, while she—

            “You’ve got a visitor.” The lock on the door turned and the heavy door swung open. Samson expected it was the Inquisitor coming to summon him, but he was surprised to see the Tevinter mage standing there. He looked every bit as amused as he had when they’d glimpsed one another in the Wilds, but Samson held no humor in himself to counter with.

            “You’ve the look of a dog on the verge of biting,” Dorian said absently, “certainly the Inquisition’s hospitality isn’t as bad as all that?” He grinned and Samson made a guttural noise of annoyance. Dorian made a gesture for him to get up.

            “The Inquisitor requires both of us in her new office, General,” Dorian said cheerily, “and if you’re going to be rude to me the least you could do is respect her.” Samson hesitated. New office? Ah, he must have meant the warded chamber below. He rose, begrudgingly, and followed Dorian out. The mage held up his hands to the guards.

            “No need for an escort, if you please,” Dorian smiled, “if this one gets away from me I’m a poor mage indeed.” The guards hesitated, reluctant to abandon their charge, and Dorian sighed, “Very well. If you insist on coming along, you’ll have to be discreet about it.”

            They didn’t answer but for a nod, and Dorian led them all away. Samson’s cell wasn’t far from the room, merely a few twists and turns from it and on the other side of the wide expanse of Skyhold’s lower half. The door to the mysterious chamber was shut, but he could see the line of flickering torchlight beneath it. Dorian knocked, succinct and light, twice. There was the muffled sound of papers shuffling, a muttered expletive, and more paper shuffling. Finally, the door opened and Hadiza poked her head out, squinting in the dimmer light of the hallway. Dorian smirked.

            “I’ve fetched him, as you so politely asked,” he said dryly, “he was reluctant to come.” Hadiza said nothing, her gaze siphoning to the two guards that flanked Samson.

            “You two,” she said to them and they went rigid with tension, looking as grim and solemn as they tried their best to put on a good show. “Go back to his cell and await further instruction there. He’ll not trouble us this evening.”

            “Your Worship…” One of the guards began, nervous under Hadiza’s unnerving look. Samson knew she was not always this official in any capacity. Her eyes didn’t match the rest of her, and so the striking color against her dark skin made her look…intimidating.

            “Yes?” She raised her brows, expectant but impatient.

            “We are under orders from the Commander to not let him leave our sight.” The guard finished and Samson swore he could hear the tremble of the man’s armor. Honestly, if these were the men Cullen had put to watch him, Samson could have easily given them the slip if he was inclined.

            “Is the Commander in charge of the Inquisition?” Hadiza asked quietly. The guard shook his head, and then blurted out _no_.

            “Then you will await further instructions at Samson’s cell.”

            “Aye, Your Worship!” The guard snapped a hasty salute and both of them turned to walk back to Samson’s cell. Once the sound of their crunching armor faded, Hadiza opened the door wider, inviting Dorian and Samson inside. He was surprised to learn that another person had joined them: Aja.

            “Well, well,” Aja said, putting down the scroll she’d been reading, “if it isn’t the Red General himself. Come to aid my sister in her madcap scheme to find your master?” She laughed at her own wit, “How easy a pretty face can make a traitor out of a man.”

            “I’m no traitor, _pirate_ ,” Samson sneered, “if you think I was ever truly loyal to anything but the cause.” Aja seemed unbothered, waving her hand dismissively.

            “Yes, yes, you were burned by the Chantry and wanted vengeance. We’re all very familiar with your impassioned speech at your trial.” She said flippantly. “You are a traitor to yourself.” She added without further exploration. Dorian glanced between Samson and Aja with increasing interest.

            “We can discuss the philosophical depth of loyalty and its implications another time,” Hadiza said irritably, “for now I’ve something far more tangible.” Samson looked up in time to see her smile at him and he strained to echo it. The silence was more of a lull and Hadiza turned away to retrieve something from a large box on her work table. Samson knew what it was before he saw it, and kept his mouth wisely shut. The scrying diadem had been crafted with care, although it deviated from the design in the book.

 

            “That’s awfully quaint,” Dorian said mildly, “very Tevene.”

            “Well considering it’s a Tevinter design,” Hadiza retorted, “I would hope so. It serves the same purpose as the focus on our staves, only it will amplify my magic’s reach. I’ll be able to scry most of Southern Thedas this way.”

            Samson still said nothing, studying the diadem. Hadiza smiled at him. “You’re awfully quiet, Samson. Something on your mind?”

            “It just occurred to me that…nevermind.” Samson looked away, feeling as if the Tevinter mage and the Inquisitor’s sister were silently judging him. Were they alone, he could have cautioned Hadiza to leave off this fool’s errand. Something wasn’t right about.

            “Oh don’t hold out on me now, Samson,” Hadiza said, “out with it.” Samson met her eyes, ignoring Dorian and Aja both.

            “Scrying isn’t…wise, I think,” he said, “not when looking for someone like Corypheus. He’s not like any mage I’ve ever seen. He’s a storm without borders, Inquisitor. If he senses for a second that you’re reaching out to find him, there’s no telling what he might be able to do.” That gave them all pause. Good. Aja’s face was pensive, considering the greater good weighed against her sister’s life. Dorian too was considering it, but more from the perspective of what would happen should the Inquisitor—their one true edge in the fight—become compromised.

            “Hadiza,” Aja said slowly, turning to look at her sister, “if this can kill you…” Hadiza’s gaze was steely and cold, but Samson saw her banked anger simmering beneath the surface.

            “I can handle it.” She said firmly, “Aside, we’ve not other way of finding him. And we can’t afford to let him regroup. We won’t survive another battle like in the Wilds.”

            “His armies are scattered to the winds,” Dorian countered, “and he’s not like to gather up any supporters other than the few remaining red templars and the Venatori. We should track him while his mind is busy preparing a contingency plan.”

            Samson glanced down at the markings on the floor. Once more his words went unheeded, and he would be used only insofar as his body could allow. Should he have proven useless, he had no doubt Hadiza would cast him aside.

            “Samson,” Hadiza voice was softer, the hard edge of her anger dissipated in the wake of an agreeable solution, “can I rely on you to…do what templars do best?” Samson nodded wordlessly. He’d try, for her at least, if nothing else.

Hadiza held up the scrying diadem and placed it on her head. It covered her nose and mouth, oddly like an ornate muzzle or strange mask than a crown. The chains on it glowed a faint blue and Samson realized that they were made of lyrium crystals. The song was faint, thin and quiet, but it was there. Hadiza looked like a figure out of the stories of hallowed antiquity: tall, statuesque, sharply dressed, and immensely powerful. Aja stepped toward the door.

“I’ll keep watch,” she said, “be safe, Hadiza.”

“I always am.” Hadiza replied, smiling from behind the diadem. Dorian stood by the desk, his gaze focused as Hadiza knelt in the center of the circle, lissome and graceful, settling into a comfortable position that would allow for her focus to be honed more completely. Samson realized something in that moment: he was without a weapon. No matter, he could get the sister to lend him her sword.

“When I am within this spell,” Hadiza explained, “I will not be entirely here. I will be walking half in the Fade. This is only a test.”

“Who are you searching for?” Samson asked. Dorian laughed.

“Her other sister,” the mage chuckled, “we figured it was best to start with someone who wasn’t like to lash back at her.” He raised his brows at Samson, “You didn’t think we’d jump right into the fun without testing our new toy, did you?”

“Of course not,” Samson growled defensively, “I know she’s a Circle-trained mage. She’d not do something so foolish as to attempt to use untested magic.” He glared at Hadiza pointedly who smiled back, smug and superior.

“Alright, Dorian, if you please.”

Dorian began to cast and Samson immediately grunted at the intense tingle at the base of his skull, the way the hair on the back of his neck stood on end, the grip of apprehension that slid down every knob in his spine and back up again. The power in the room was intense, and he’d forgotten how long it had been since he’d been in a room with mages casting. He’d spent so long amongst his templars that he almost wanted to negate the magic on instinct. More importantly, it reminded him of his thirst.

Hadiza sat in absolute stillness; her eyes focused frontward, as light, spindly wisps of frost began to swirl from her body. Samson knew this as _Winter Stillness_ , but he didn’t know mages still used it. The film of frost covered her hair in little glittering shards, the mask’s gloss was dulled by it, and the floor around her grew cold. The circle of runes and wards glowed a faint white, and Hadiza’s eyes shifted from silver to an opaque milky color.

“She’s out searching, now.” Dorian said, “Let’s see what she finds.”

Samson watched Hadiza intently, not paying the Tevinter any mind. He fell back on training that had been instilled in him for decades, training that could make the hardest heart quake, and it was so easy! Maker, it was no different than a Circle, only there was no threat hovering at Hadiza’s back should she fail. This was how it should have been from the beginning, he thought; the mages free to explore magic safely, not with the threat of a templar’s blade at their neck, but with compassionate guardians and protectors.

“I’m going to see to it that Aja is kept company,” Dorian said with a chuckle, “I trust you’ll know what to do if anything goes awry?”

“Aye,” Samson grumbled, “don’t wander too far off.”

And with that, Dorian left him in the company of a not-quite-there Hadiza.

Hadiza felt as if she were at once tethered to the world and floating away, spiraling out of control toward the sky. She fell upwards until Thedas was far beneath her and she was amidst the clouds, hurtling this way and that. The magic was a wild thing, wriggling and struggling against her will, and when she managed to regain focus, she began to plummet back toward the ground. Thedas rushed toward her in a blur. There—the Frostbacks formed a sharp spine along the back of Southern Thedas, forming the boundary between Ferelden and Orlais. There, patches of desert in the Western Approach, an encroaching dryness threatening to devour all that was green in the world.

Hadiza landed, but it was not so much landing as it was her suddenly being on the ground. She blinked against the strange light, at once too harsh and too weak and watery for her eyes to handle.

“Alright,” she said and the sound of her voice carried no further than her lips, “…that’s strange. This is just like the Fade…hmm…” Hadiza turned, trying to gain her bearings. Then, she took a deep breath and _thought_.

Immediately, she was hurled and careening toward Maker knew where, screaming the entire way. Her focus had been on Ariadne, but it was skewed. She tumbled through the air, trying to touch the ground, but she could not. Finally, whatever force moved her spit her out directly into the Griffon Wing Keep, where Ariadne was stationed. She went into a defensive posture on instinct, but the people there seemed not to notice her.

“Hello?” She waved in front of an Inquisition soldier’s face, and he…passed right through her. Hadiza grinned to herself and began to strut through the Keep. She passed a group of soldiers by the cistern, eagerly splashing their faces with water to cool off in the heat. Hadiza reached into the water to splash one of them but found it intangible.

“So much for Fade pranks…” She muttered, “Alright, Ariadne. Where are you?”

Hadiza glanced around and made her way into the Keep’s inner halls, passing a group of mages on the way.

“Did you feel that?” One of them asked, startled and bewildered, turning to look at Hadiza, where she simply gazed back.

“Feel what?” A female mage demanded, “Honestly Garrett if this is another one of your stupid jests…”

“No! It’s not! I swear it isn’t!” Hadiza smirked, reached forward, and snapped her fingers in front of Garrett’s face. He practically leapt out of his skin.

“There it was again! Isolde, I swear to you the Veil is thin here. Perhaps we tore it during our battle with the Venatori!”

“Oh stop your whining, shemlen,” an elven mage quipped, “you’ve just been out in the heat too long.”

“Perhaps…” Garrett said a little doubtfully, and the group continued on while Hadiza turned on her heel to continue forward. Forgetting she was intangible, she nearly ran headlong into Ariadne, he was laughing. Rylen followed close behind and Hadiza noticed their hands were linked.

“Two out of three, then?” Rylen asked her, and Ariadne shot him a look over her shoulder.

“You might be something of a beast with a sword, templar, but you’ll not get two out of three with me bare-handed.” Ariadne teased, then laughed when he tugged her backward into a dark corner. Hadiza stepped aside, watching with profound and startled interest. They kissed, Rylen’s hands sliding down Ariadne’s back to palm her rear. Embarrassed, Hadiza ran back into the open courtyard, and _thought_ once more. This time, she managed more control over the journey, but getting back to her body was still disorienting.

And when Hadiza came crashing back into herself, she felt as if she knew what the very stars must feel like if trapped within flesh. The frost around her shattered and she gasped, scrambling to her feet. The ground was slippery, and had Samson not been there to catch her in time she might have hurt herself trying to stand. He caught her with a strong arm around the waist, pulling her to him. Hadiza was wide-eyed, everything in the chamber coming into focus as she met Samson’s eyes. He reached up, took the mask from her face.

“You alright?” He asked and Hadiza mouthed something, testing out the sounds of her own voice.

“Yes…” She whispered, but her expression was suffused with a sense of awe, as if she’d done or felt something that no words could ever describe. Samson didn’t let go of her, nor did she push him away. Hadiza noticed in that moment that his eyes, while still tainted on the edges with the corruption of the red lyrium, were a clear shade of pale green. She could see the corruption in him this close, could see how it held him as surely as if he’d been born with it. And yet, beneath it she saw the man Cullen described.

 _He was a good man, once_.

“Inquisitor,” Samson said, “are you sure you’re not…?”

“Hadiza.” She told him and Samson blinked, finally opting to settle her on her feet.

“What?” He asked lamely. Hadiza smiled at him.

“In here, please call me Hadiza.”

Samson look away. She’d given him permission to address her by name within these walls, but to do so would change much more than she realized. So he was silent.

“I’m alright.” She murmured, reaching forward. Samson at first thought she reached for his hand but she took the diadem from him instead, her fingertips brushing his skin in the barest contact. “I assure you, I’m alright.”

Samson nodded.

“Thank you fo—“ Hadiza glanced at the door as it swung open, Aja and Dorian striding in with smiles.

“Oh good, you’re not dead and nothing is on fire.” Dorian said conversationally, “I take it you found what you were looking for.”

“Oh.” Hadiza laughed, “Yes. I did. Shall we discuss my findings over breakfast tomorrow? I’m quite tired.” Aja’s gaze was silent but questioning. Hadiza made an imperceptible gesture with her fingers and eyes. Aja nodded and they exited the chamber. Samson followed, keeping his distance. When Aja and Dorian bid Hadiza goodnight and left, Hadiza turned to him.

“I’d invite you to breakfast but…” She shrugged, smiling helplessly. Samson didn’t know if he had the right frame of mind to smile back, but he tried.

“I don’t think I’m fit for polite company either, Inquisitor.” He grinned at her, “But here we are. You being polite and me not being fit for you.”

Hadiza laughed. “What does that even mean? Samson don’t be daft. I’ll send for you tomorrow.” She turned to leave but Samson stopped her.

“Not going to send for my escort?” He asked her, and there was bit of the old bitterness in his voice. Hadiza looked him up and down, and chuckled.

“Why? Going to get lost on your way to the cell?”

Samson was quiet and so was Hadiza. He stepped backward, strangely out of sorts all of sudden.

“Goodnight, Samson.” She said, and walked out of the door leading toward the main hall. Samson went back to his cell, trying to process the message he’d just been sent. His guard said nothing as he went into the room, the door shutting him in darkness save for the one shaft of light from the hall’s torches. Samson sat on the edge of his cot, trying to understand what this feeling of hope tasted like.

 _Hadiza_.


	8. Chapter 8

            Autumn came to Skyhold, and with it, the harvest season. The Frostbacks were always bitterly cold, but it was doubly so during the harvest season. Hadiza stood on the battlements, breathing in the crisp air, watching the tiny pinpricks of torchlight and cookfires in the refugee and pilgrim camps that sprawled along Skyhold’s demesne like a carpet of stars. She could hear, faintly, the sound of song and laughter, snatched away by the wind as she shivered in her heavy cloak, wondering.

            _How long before they begin to resent me?_ Her eyes shut at the thought. Self-introspection was a dangerous secondary voice; a breath of fierce propulsion and doubt that could damn one to endless mistakes and self-sabotage if they weren’t careful. Hadiza knew it wasn’t right to doubt herself when she had done more than was expected of her already, but still…she wondered. She knew of a certainty that people still reviled the Champion of Kirkwall despite Merishka doing everything in her power to keep the city’s cancer from bulging out at the strained seams.

            And now Merishka was dead, and her legacy subsumed in one of reverence and defilement. She would forever be known as the one who let the insurrectionist apostate live rather than execute him.

            Hadiza would remember her as the one whose sacrifice had bought them more time than they could have hoped for. What little she’d come to know of the Champion had been good, and Varric spoke highly of her with a rare and unmitigated honesty he rarely afforded the other companions. Hadiza bowed her head. Merishka had sacrificed herself, but there had not been any true need. The Warden Alistair had offered up his life as well, and the decision had fallen to her.

            Merishka was dead because Hadiza willed it so.

            “Am I intruding?” Cullen’s voice was a thread of warmth in the chill and Hadiza turned, smiling affectionately. He was everything a woman should want in a man: tall, handsome, loyal to a fault, honorable, and with an almost frustrating sense of unswerving justice to guide him. He smiled at her and it was such a tender thing, at odds with the weathered lines of his face, the shadows of eidolons ten years dead beneath his eyes. Hadiza inclined her head, beckoning him with a look, and he came to her, her loyal and stalwart Cullen, put his arms around her, and pressed his lips to her temple.

            Why did that not stir her blood as it should have?

            “I wish this were the lull of peace after the final battle, and not a lull heavy with apprehension and fear.” Hadiza murmured, taking comfort in the added warmth of Cullen’s fur mantle. It tickled her ears and nose and she bit her lip on a smile from it. Cullen made a sound deep in his chest, making her shiver as it traveled up her spine.

            “We have but one foe left to defeat and we can begin to work toward true peace,” he assured her, “…what will you do, when this is over?” Hadiza was quiet for some time, for the question was one she never truly thought to ask herself either. She, like him, had never seen much of herself beyond the Inquisition. She had never seen an end.

            “I don’t know, Cullen, truly,” she said honestly, “but I have a sneaking feeling that Corypheus isn’t the only mess in Thedas we’ll be called upon to cleanup. There have been a great deal more mysteries heaped upon my lap since the Breach was closed.” She smiled as Cullen hugged her tighter, then turned in the encirclement of his arms to look at him.

            “Would it be so terrible to ask if you wanted company in this future?” He laughed. Hadiza did not answer him, not because she did not want to, but because she could not. There was no answer for him, not one that would be the outcome he likely hoped for.

            “Cullen…” Hadiza’s eyes lowered, her tone unsure, “…in Kirkwall, were you and Samson…?” She looked up and Cullen’s expression was a bit surprised, and when it dawned on him, he laughed.

            “Oh. I…yes. There was a brief time when we were more, or could have been more. But Samson’s lyrium addiction made him less than desirable. Coupled with his…compromising his duties to aid a mage…” Cullen realized too late what he’d said. Hadiza’s expression was unreadable but he could feel her body close off to him, could feel the way she began to shut him out.

            “So his addiction to lyrium wasn’t what did it. But because he had sympathy for mages, you couldn’t abide him.” Hadiza stated in a neutral tone. Cullen looked away from her.

            “I told you I am not proud of the man I once was.” He fixed her with a steady gaze, “And why the interest in Samson? Has he done something?” Hadiza turned back to the open air of the battlements, suddenly not needing the warmth of Cullen’s fur mantle near her.

            “He’s a bit surly most days, but no more than can be expected. He’s aiding Master Dennet in the stables.” She leaned against the wall, taking a deep breath.

            “And what of his work with you?” Cullen asked quietly, so quiet his words were almost woven into the wind itself, and Hadiza tensed, “I’m not a fool, Hadiza. I know you’re about some secret project. No one will speak of it, but I trust you know what you’re about. Why you need Samson’s assistance is beyond me.”

            Hadiza could not understand why she was angry. Was it because he’d dismissed Samson’s usefulness? Why wouldn’t he? He could not have known Samson was far more well-read in the arcane than the average templar. Or was it somewhat else? Something deeper? Whatever seed had been planted within her was threatening to germinate, and the implications frightened her.

            “He’s serving merely as a heavy-lifter, for now,” Hadiza said dishonestly, framing her lie with precision, “but I’m sure he’ll prove more useful given time.”

            Cullen was silent, but his expression was thoughtful, his mouth set in a grim line.

            “You could have sent him to Kirkwall, you know,” he suggested, “less trouble on our hands. Why are you so determined to aid him?” Hadiza turned on him, then, affronted.

            “Because I don’t think Kirkwall is in any position to do real justice, Cullen,” she said, “for Andraste’s sake they are still in recovery from their last attempt at ignoring the ills within their walls. And Orlais?” Hadiza let out a bitter and harsh laugh, “Orlais would burn if I had my way. That country is a viper’s nest. They’d kill him and have done with it. That is not justice.”

            Cullen watched her, saw how her eyes glimmered like distant stars, with all sharp clarity but none of the cold indifference the pinpricks of light often afforded from their vigil in the heavens. Hadiza reminded him in that moment that she was her own woman, as self-contained as a gathering storm, maintaining a fierce calm at the center. She would stand by her decision and any who opposed her would be swept aside. He ceded ground to her in those moments, his posture shrinking a bit.

            “Do as you will,” he said to her wearily, “as you are wont. I suppose, as your…companion, it is the least I could do to offer you a word of caution. I do not think Samson would be so foolish as to attempt to hurt you, but I also once thought him an honorable man.” Hadiza did not miss the dig, eyes narrowing slightly. And like a cloud passing over the moon, her expression smoothed over, bestowing upon him a simpering smile.

            “You can say it, you know.” She said, and at Cullen’s puzzled look she sighed, “You can call me your lover. How long have you shared my bed these last few weeks that I could be anything but?” She searched his face, wondering. “Or am I but a casual dalliance for you? A taste of the fruit once forbidden to you during your time as a templar?” There was an edge in her voice, and Cullen felt it as sure as a blade pressed against the tender flesh along his ribs. She would shift, and the blade would sink into his heart.

            _The Maker knows my sin…and I pray He will forgive me._

Cullen did not mean for the memory to come to him, but it came irrespective of his own will. Visions through a hazy prison forged by the mind of a mad abomination, a pair of soft brown eyes, looking upon him with pity, full lips drawn into a frown.

            _Tempting me with the one thing I always wanted but could never have._

The memory of his words horrified him and he looked upon Hadiza but it was not her face he saw, but the face of a woman long gone beyond the reach of his long-dead infatuation.

            Galatea.

            _A mage…of all things_ …

            “Cullen?” Hadiza’s voice sounded so far away, and he was elsewhere. Why had she asked him that?

            “Do you think that of me, truly?” He came back to himself, heard himself speaking as if with a stranger’s voice. “Do you think it is easy for me to let go of my past and…allow myself to move on?”

            Hadiza gasped. “Cullen, I didn’t mean…shit. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

            Cullen felt his anger banked in his chest, setting his heart ablaze.

            “I am trying, Hadiza,” he ground out, “but one does not simply set aside the past ten years. I have seen what mages can do when angered.” Hadiza’s eyes grew wide, “But this isn’t what I see in you. You’re not just some…forbidden fruit to me. You’re much more than that. You’re…”

            Hadiza swallowed hard, driving the lump in her throat to the acid pit of her belly.

            “Hadiza, you’re so much more than your magic.” Cullen told her, “And if I have made a poor show of proving that, I am sorry. There are some shadows I have yet to escape. And it is in my nature to fear for your safety.”

            “For my magic, yes,” Hadiza whispered, “but you don’t trust me, do you? You still think at any moment I will grow desperate and reach for the forbidden.”

            “No!” Cullen said quickly, “I…yes. Alright, yes, Hadiza. The temptation is always there for mages; I know this. When you use magic you are vulnerable, and with the Anchor, there is no telling how much more vulnerable you have become.”

            “You forget that I too was educated in the Circle,” Hadiza warned him, “And I am just as familiar with the academic points of magical usage as any templar.” She stepped away from him, drawing herself up to her full height, “I have walked the Fade physically, _twice_ , Cullen,” she hissed, “and slain more demons than you have likely seen in a lifetime. Can you not credit me with some semblance of willpower and self-control?”

            For a while, neither said anything, staring hard at the other, trying to find just where the tension eased as they crossed swords. Cullen sighed, trying to dispel his anger and mistrust.

            “You lock yourself in your study for hours on end, Hadiza, and no one tells me what you do in there. The last time a mage kept secrets was when—“

            “This is not the Circle, Cullen!” Hadiza’s voice rose to a shout, and she was sure the night patrol must have heard her. Cullen drew back as if slapped, but it was too late, and Hadiza’s anger rode out of her.

            “I am no longer bound by the Chantry’s restrictions, and you are no longer a templar jailer,” she continued, “let it go. If you want me to tell you what I’m studying, then simply ask me directly. Do not make casual inquiries as if you are investigating for blood mages. I am looking for a way to stop Corypheus.” She began to walk away, back toward the stairwell leading into the keep. She shot him a poisonous look over her shoulder.

            “Bring our men back from the Wilds as soon as you are able. I should be ready to assault Corypheus within the next few weeks.”

            And with that, Hadiza left Cullen to the cold, whistling wind on the battlements.

  

* * *

 

 

           The next day dawned with overcast, and it seemed to leech what little color there was to be had around Skyhold. Even the moods of the people were a little less as everyone took to their duties. The keep bustled with activity, and it seemed as if the day would pass without incident. Messengers arrived daily with news from Adamant and the Arbor Wilds regarding the progress of rebuilding. Men too wounded to be moved recuperated on the battlefields upon which they’d been injured, and the healers in Skyhold were sent out, leaving the infirmary running on a skeleton crew.

In those days, in her anger, Hadiza focused on what she did best. When she wasn’t practicing mastering the scrying magic, she was in the infirmary, tending to those who had returned from the battlefields to be tended here…at home. It gave them heart to see their Inquisitor getting blood on her hands alongside the surgeons and healers, pounding poultices and setting broken bones herself. The Chantry mothers did nothing to dissuade her, and Josephine took that as an opportunity to bolster the Inquisition’s reputation amongst the people.

            “See how our leader does not shy from the horrors of war.” She would say, both in letters and in speech. Hadiza did not seem to care either way, losing herself in the rhythm of her healing magic. She picked up he slack with lyrium potions, burning through her mana with each man, woman, and some children within her care.

            And one day, she simply collapsed, eliciting a gasp from those in attendance.

            “Your Worship,” it was Mother Lucille, an elder woman with iron-gray hair, her weathered hands firm and strong as she helped Hadiza to her feet, “you have done enough. Let the others handle it. We cannot afford to see you join the ranks of the infirm when our greatest trial is as yet unchallenged.”

            Hadiza nodded, bleary-eyed and exhausted. She was escorted, carefully, but two soldiers, back to her quarters. And surprisingly, it was First Enchanter Vivienne who halted them, citing she would see to Hadiza’s care.

            Hadiza did not protest, content to let someone else give orders, and Madame de Fer’s voice was firm and commanding, brooking no room for argument. The guards responded to her as if she were the Inquisitor and not the mana-weary woman beside the powerful mage. Safely ensconced within her chambers, Hadiza listened with half an ear as Vivienne ordered her to change out of the bloodied rags of her clothes. She walked with that same self-assured stroll that Hadiza always wanted to emulate, and inspected the room.

            “I’ve sent the servants to bring up some tea,” she told Hadiza, who froze with one knee on her bed as Vivienne shot her a sharp, reproachful look, “and I’ve also sent for your sister, Dorian, and Samson.” Vivienne looked unbothered by Hadiza’s startled look.

            “Don’t look so surprised, dear, you have to know that I too was reared in the Circle,” she turned, beckoning to Hadiza, who came to her unbidden, in nothing but an undershirt and her smallclothes, “you’ve been broaching the subject of long-forgotten magics with that Tevinter mage, I know. Though, I’m curious: how does Samson figure into your…studies?”

            Hadiza swallowed. “He’s the only one with templar abilities who won’t question the methods I use to find Corypheus.” Vivienne’s expression never changed and Hadiza realized her mistake, swearing softly. Vivienne slight smile was all the approval Hadiza needed.

            “And I wager that’s what has the Commander so on edge of late?” She made a subtle gesture with her hand and Hadiza went to the bathing chamber, stripping down as she began the process of releasing water into the deep tub and activating the runes. Vivienne stood in the doorway. They had spent too many weeks on the road together to fall back on decorum in private.

            “He doesn’t know what I’m doing. He just doesn’t like that I’ve involved Samson. He thinks Samson should be suffering in some hole somewhere.” Hadiza tested the water’s warmth with her hand and stepped inside gingerly. Vivienne crossed her arms, tilting her head. She made an amused sound that was not quite laughter.

            “Yes, I can see where he might get the impression that Samson is completely useless,” she mused, almost to herself, “but I suspect your interest in the ex-templar is far more than academic.”

            “Don’t insult me,” Hadiza said, scrubbing at her arms and hands, and “he is far more well-read than the average templar; it is what made him a formidable opponent, I believe.” Vivienne regarded Hadiza with that calculating look, the one that had all the precision of a surgical blade, looking for a weak point to cut away the flesh and reveal the truth. Hadiza feigned turning to look for her washcloth so as not to make eye contact.

            “You can admit he’s charming, you know,” Vivienne said and Hadiza’s cheeks grew hot, “though I would have to spend a lifetime reeducating you on your taste in men. He offers nothing advantageous save the location of our enemy.”

            “I’m not playing the Game, Madame Vivienne,” Hadiza dunked beneath the water momentarily to rinse off, rising and smoothing back her waterlogged hair, “so an advantage is not what I—there is nothing between me and Samson. He is cooperative and helpful. Our relationship is purely academic and amicable.”

            Vivienne said nothing and walked out of the bathing chamber.

            “I hate when she does that.” Hadiza muttered to herself.  Climbing out of the bath, Hadiza snatched one of the fluffy absorbent towels from the hooks along the wall, patting herself dry and wrapping her wet hair in the towel as she reached for a robe. Tying it tight, she passed back into the bedchamber to find the tea delivered, and Aja, Dorian, and Samson standing in her chambers. Vivienne was quiet and Hadiza was rooted to the spot, caught between toweling her hair dry, and being faced with a dilemma.

            “So,” Aja said conversationally, “I take Diza told you what she’s got planned to find a giant darkspawn magister?”

            “Not quite,” Vivienne said, “but I expect I’ll know soon enough.”

            Samson tried to focus on anything in the room but Hadiza, and instead marveled at the sheer decadence of her private quarters. He should have expected nothing less from a woman like her, but still, it was sinful. He could smell how expensive the room was. And there she was, standing there, fresh from a bath. He could smell the lavender on her moist skin, faint and sweet, at odds with the clean scent of her room.

            _So this is where they keep all the sunlight_. He thought sardonically, and chuckled to himself. Hadiza would keep the sun for herself, swallow it and exude its brilliance from within to without. He’d expect her to do something like that.

            “Scrying magic,” Dorian explained, “forgotten by most of the world, but catalogued in a few rare, ponderous tomes in certain libraries.” He smiled, “I might have invited you, my lady, had you but expressed interest. But I know how finicky you Circle types are about the forbidden arts.”

            Vivienne raised a brow.

            “Are you attempting to bait me, Ser Pavus?” She asked and Dorian grinned.

            “Never that, dear lady,” he inclined his head toward Hadiza, “but we’ve already made headway with the scrying device. It works. We merely need to amplify power and reach to find the magister.”

            Vivienne was quiet for a time, glancing between all assembled as if weighing and measuring them each in turn. Samson felt as if he were a flower struggling against a drought, withering in her shrewd sight. He’d much rather have faced down a dragon. At least he was sure it would devour him if he faltered.

            “Correct me if I’m wrong, my dear,” Vivienne was speaking to Hadiza, but looking directly at Dorian, “but does scrying magic not require the essence of the subject being searched for?”

            Dorian’s eyelids flickered, and Samson didn’t miss Vivienne’s small, almost imperceptible smirk of triumph.

            “Yes.” Hadiza said slowly, “But we’ve found a way to accomplish this without the use of blood magic, if that’s what you’re concerned about.” Vivienne’s gaze settled at last on Samson, and he felt as if he were about to be set alight.

            “And so we come at last to your role in all this,” she said, amused, “well then. I’ll not breathe a word of this to the Commander, my dear, but do be careful.” She began to walk away, “And get some rest.”

            Dorian watched as Vivienne made her way to the staircase and out of the Inquisitor’s chambers.

            “How the fuck did she know?” Aja asked with a breathless laugh. Dorian chuckled.

            “It seems I have underestimated you Circle mages. At least some of you are bold in your arcane studies.”

            Samson breathed a sigh of relief he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He glanced at Hadiza, who met his gaze, and smiled. Aja glanced at the tea set and nabbed a biscuit from the tray.

            “So, what do we do, now?” She asked Hadiza, who stood there, still damp, a towel in her hand.

            “We’re going to find Corypheus,” she replied, “and we’re going to do it in three days. Be ready.”


	9. Chapter 9

            Madame Vivienne kept her word, as far as Hadiza knew, but Hadiza refused to rest. She was determined to finish this business once and for all and track the magister. The scrying chamber was chilled to the stones from her efforts and Samson shivered in his coat as he watched her, his breath coming out in little puffs of steam before his face.

Hadiza was still, her face partially obscured by the mask, her expression locked in a rictus of determination. Frost covered her from head to toe and when she searched, but when her body began to tremble, Samson tensed. Hadiza came back to herself with a grunt of mild discomfort, or perhaps it was frustration, he did not know, and he was there to help her to her feet, removing the diadem to ensure he could see her eyes clearly. He told himself it was to ensure she did not exhibit signs of possession, that he was merely upholding his end of the bargain, playing templar to her mage.

            It was only what he told himself.

            Helping Hadiza to one of the large armchairs, Samson was loathe to release her, but he checked her hands quietly, listening as Hadiza caught her breath.

            “You should have told me you were pulling extra magical duty,” Samson chided her gruffly, “so I could tell you how foolish that was to overexert yourself.”

            Hadiza made a noise of irritation, but lacked the energy to do much else. Samson finished his routine check, but did not move from the spot where he knelt in front of her. Somehow, it felt…different. He’d done this dozens of times over the weeks, and yet…

            “I am a healer first and foremost, Samson,” she retorted finally, “and all of my most skilled healers are out in the Wilds and at Adamant Fortress tending to men and women too sick and wounded to survive the journey home.”

            Alright, he’d earned that one, he admitted. He should have known she’d spread herself thin to pick up the slack, but it was beginning to affect her performance in the more important task at hand.

            “Your reach won’t extend beyond your nose next time if you keep this up.” He said back, ignoring her pointed glare, “And your being exhausted means you’ll be easier prey, in the Fade.”

            “I am so tired of being told that I am nothing but demon bait whenever I cast so much as a single cantrip.” Hadiza snapped, “What makes you think a demon would ever find someone like me to be easy prey?” Samson thought for a moment, studying her face. For some reason, in all her indignation, he found her easy to behold. He began to laugh. Hadiza’s expression faltered, her anger shrinking as Samson chuckled.

            “You’re right,” he said at last, “what demon would be fool enough to prey on the Inquisitor?” He grinned at her, but there was no malice in it. Hadiza’s brows furrowed.

            “You mock me.” She stated, almost petulantly. Samson shook his head.

            “No, I’m not mocking you,” he didn’t realize he’d taken her hands in his own, “but you are overexerting yourself. You can’t find Corypheus in three days. Give yourself time to replenish the mana you’ve lost.”

            Hadiza looked away, sullen and disappointed. Samson stood, groaning as his joints ached from the chill she’d brought on earlier. He felt them crack and pop as he stretched and Hadiza stood as well, too close, and on unsteady legs besides. When she wavered, Samson gripped her arms to steady her.

            “Like a damned foal.” He teased, “To think I lost to you.” Hadiza made a face but there was humor in her eyes. She was not completely sensitive to his quips. The silence stretched longer than either intended, and Hadiza’s expression softened, as if she had just seen something that pleased her. Samson wasn’t sure when it happened, but his grip on her arms loosened, his hands tentative as he smoothed them around her silk-clad back. Hadiza stepped closer, enough for him to feel the curves of her body, sculpted by combat, molding to the hard lines of his own.

            He lowered his head, and she rose up on her toes, her mouth meeting his with a gentleness he’d not known was possible. Ah, Maker! Her lips were soft, so soft, like kissing the petals of a flower, truly. And how must he have compared to her, with his rough mouth and grizzled jaw? His breath was fouled by rotgut wine but she didn’t seem to care.

            Hadiza felt something stir at the bottom of her ribs, felt her heart flutter in the birdcage of her chest, and her blood turned to liquid fire. Hadiza let herself indulge, let herself revel in this feeling that stirred the soul like a breath from heaven. Samson’s mouth tasted foul but it was not the taste she was after, it was how it made her feel. She shut her eyes, bliss shivering over her skin, raising gooseflesh that had nothing to do with the chill. Samson’s arms grew bolder, his tentative embrace becoming tighter as she pressed into him. Somehow, her arms came around his neck, and then she moved to cup his face in her hands, gentle, as if he was precious to her.

            After the glow began to fade, they pulled away, slow and reluctant. Hadiza stared, wide-eyed with amazement, lips parted, unable to summon words sufficient enough to convey what her eyes sought to tell him. Samson, blinked, taking a breath too deep, chest expanding before he exhaled. He longed to kiss her again, to keep kissing her until her lips were love-swollen and beestung from the effort. He wanted to run his fingers through her hair, tug her head back, and lick the swan arc of her throat, to feel her pulse leap beneath his lips, to feel her groan of pleasure as he found the secret parts of her that melted away the mask of Inquisitor.

            If he wanted nothing else, it was that.

            “Samson…” She whispered, and her voice was tremulous with awe and fright, a leaf in the shadow of a storm, “…what are we doing?”

            He wanted to tell her exactly what they were doing. He wanted to tell her they played with fire, and that he would happily follow her into the flames that they both might burn. He wanted to tell her she was becoming an increasingly enticing source of frustration and fascination for him. She was no savior, no herald come to convey the message of the Maker’s forgiveness to His wayward children, but she had become something more than the Inquisitor to him. A beacon—a light in a seemingly impenetrable darkness, where she stood at the end, waiting. Would she extend her hand to him?

            More importantly, if she did, would he have the strength and courage to take it?

            “I…” She untangled herself from his embrace, her expression caught between shame and surprise, “I should go.” Samson’s hands hung at his sides, and he didn’t move, watching her leave the room. There was nothing else for it, save to swear to himself that he would chase this thread wherever it lead.

            It was the last kind of trouble he needed, but Maker help him, it was the **exact** kind of trouble he wanted.

* * *

 

            Cullen regretted quarreling with Hadiza, in hindsight. He turned over the events in his mind again and again, but he could find no way to compromise. He could not simply change his mind because he would be lying. And he’d rather Hadiza know the truth and love him, than lie, and suffer for it.

            But the truth was unfair to her and her alone.

            She could not be anything other than what she was, and it was for that Cullen loved her, but it did not change the fact that she was dangerous; both to herself and others around her.

            _Can you not credit me with some semblance of willpower and self-control?_

Her words cut deeply at his pride. He hated being wrong, but it was rare he was that. He stood by what he believed in same as anyone else. Could Hadiza not see the dangers? With demons pouring from the sky she was more vulnerable—all the mages were.

            _But you don’t really care about all the other mages, do you?_ A perfidious voice seeped from inside his head. _Just the one whose bed you’re eager to climb in every night._

Cullen’s face contorted into an angry snarl. No, this wasn’t his way. Hadiza was more than that. She was the Inquisitor…a hero, what Thedas needed.

            _She’s a mage. At the end of the day, she is only a woman—a mage—facing the same dangers any other of her kind faces._

He focused on the good, ignored the treachery of his own fears threatening to consume him, and shut his eyes. Deep breaths filled his lungs with crisp, mountain air, and exhales saw him relax, the tension in his body leaving like a bad spirit. He had to regain control of his fear, had to remember that it was behind him, that here he was safe.

            “Cullen?” Hadiza’s voice was so small he almost missed it. But his office was quiet enough that he heard her footsteps, and his door closed. Cullen blinked.

            “Can I come up?” Her voice cracked a little, “Please?” Cullen hesitated. Part of him was still angry with her, but the other part…he wanted to hear her laugh again. He wanted the woman he loved back.

            “Yes.” He said at last. Hadiza was slow to ascend, not eager or rushed, and he waited, watching her poke her head above the entrance to his room, and then helped haul her up the rest of the way.

            “Hadiza, are you alright?” He asked her. Hadiza’s gaze was unfocused and she looked at him, smiling and shrugging.

            “You know,” she said, and there was grief in her voice, mourning the death of something he did not want a name for, “I asked myself that earlier and I can’t seem to find an answer that doesn’t end in a shattered mirror right now. Next question.”

            He wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or be alarmed, so he was quiet.

            “I’m sorry.” They said at the same time. They laughed, and for a moment, things were alright…things were normal. They talked, late into the night, clinging to the few bright memories they’d made together, swapping stories from childhood, forgetting the masks they wore. And when the talking dwindled, they lay together in his bed, staring at the sky through his ceiling.

            “Why did you never get the hole fixed?” Hadiza asked, shifting to adjust herself in his arms. Cullen chuckled, but his smile was half-hearted, his eyes briefly clouded with memory, as he remembered the crushing spirit prison around him, and the way he looked up and saw only stone, cracked and bulging with corrupted corpses, most belonging to men and women he once called ‘friend.’

            “So that I might breathe easier, on the harder nights.” He said quietly. Hadiza did not pry for more, understanding that it was tied somewhat to his past. She’d not begrudge him that secret at least. The quiet of the late night lulled them both to sleep. Cullen listened to Hadiza’s deep breathing, and wondered again at the treacherous whispers of his mind from earlier.

            He did not think the dissenting whispers would ever reach hers.

 

* * *

 

            “We find Corypheus tonight.” Hadiza said over lunch the next afternoon. Samson sat across the table from her in the scrying chamber, pausing mid-bite to stare at her.

            “Why the rush?” He asked after swallowing. Hadiza said nothing, merely washed down her meal with an unladylike gulp of her wine, and set the goblet down. She dabbed her mouth with a napkin and then caught sight of him watching her from across the table.

            “What?” She asked and Samson stared at her a moment longer. Hadiza’s eyes narrowed, then.

            “ _What_?” She repeated, more forcefully this time. Samson set his fork down.

            “What do you need me for?” He asked her. Hadiza’s brows furrowed. She didn’t answer him, instead running her fingers through her hair. Samson was too sleep-deprived for this. And he’d not let her play with his head. If he was going to die, he’d much rather have done it in a cold cell, occasionally beaten into kindling by the guards. This…uncertainty was frustrating.

            “I told you,” Hadiza said, “you’re the only one wh—“

            “That’s bullshit, Inquisitor.” Samson growled startling her with the use of her title, “We both know you could have ordered any templar. You chose me. Why?”

            Hadiza hesitated again and Samson thought to tug the leash of her title to make her talk, but he didn’t. Instead, he waited, unafraid in that moment to meet her eyes. Hadiza took a deep breath.

            “The day they brought you in for trial…you said everything you ever cared about was destroyed. That Corypheus would kill you on sight.” Hadiza rested her hands on the table, “Even though you have done things…unspeakable things…I understood you in that moment.”

            “Tuh.” Samson snorted, “You sympathized, Inquisitor. You can’t understand. You were born into money, cushioned by the Circle, and then handed a fancy title and all the power in the world it entailed just for being in the wrong place at the right time. You’ve never had to scrape and beg on your hands and knees just for enough coin to eat for a day.” Hadiza looked down, but Samson wouldn’t let her get out of this one.

            “Look at me.” He said and she lifted her gaze, “This is what the Chantry did to me, Inquisitor. Your precious Chantry, the same one that would bind your power up if they knew half of what you got up to in here. They used me up because I could swing a sword, believed in the Maker, and no one would miss me. And when I was no longer of any use to them, when I started questioning their methods…they threw me out without so much as a _fuck you_.” Samson felt his anger grow hot and boiling, the old hurt breaking open like a scab, the poison of his binding hatred oozing forth. Hadiza was rooted to the spot, staring at him, wide-eyed.

“Be thankful that you **can’t** understand me, Inquisitor, because if you did, you’d burn the world down right alongside me.”

Hadiza said nothing, because she had no words with which to describe what lay between them. Instead, she breathed in deeply, trying to clear her body of the electric adrenaline pumping in her veins.

“Samson, what happened before…” She began, her voice soft, “I…Cullen told me what happened to you, and I am sorry for it. Maker…innocent people have died for your fury, Samson. People who want no part in this chaos have perished. I cannot claim to understand how one could be moved so deeply as to not consider the cost.”

Samson frowned, but he had no rebuttal. She was right, and he had considered the cost, albeit briefly. There had been some regret, but he knew—or he thought—it was for a much greater good. Now, in retrospect, he knew it to be the veil of his own hatred. He’d let it fuel him, let it carry him beyond the realm of self-doubt. He could have told her that her own hands were just as mired in the blood of innocents, but he knew it was not the same. Hadiza was not a woman who killed without just cause. If that were so, she’d have mounted his head on her front gate months ago.

“Look,” he felt his rage dissipate, flow out of him like trapped heat out of a room, “neither one of us is innocent, and me less so. I don’t need you to remind me of that.” Hadiza looked perplexed.

“How have I reminded you of that, Samson? _I_ didn’t place the chains of blood-guilt on you. You forged those chains yourself.” Hadiza put her hands on her hips. Samson narrowed his eyes.

“You going to pull rank on me?” He demanded nastily and Hadiza’s lip curled.

“Pull ran—Samson are you mad? I have tried to be civil with you, why are you angry with me?”

“You’re civil because you want information,” Samson said bitterly, “and as soon as that’s done you’ll put me back in the hole to rot. I know how this game is played.”

“Do you? You’ve the temperament of a man who has never known a kind word a day in his life. Maker! Between you and Cullen there’s no end to the wallowing.” Hadiza threw up her hands in dismay, making a hissing sound and turning away. Samson saw there were tears in her eyes. Shit. That wasn’t what he expected.

“Hadiza, I…”

“Go away. I’ll find Corypheus myself if need be.” Her shoulders shook and Samson felt a pang of guilt. He’d lashed out at her without just cause and she’d been nothing but kind to him. Remembering the coolness of her hands on his bruised and battered skin, he sighed.

“I shouldn’t have…” He didn’t want to apologize, nor did he know how to frame it. Hadiza turned to face him again, quickly dashing tears from her eyes, “Why are you crying?”

“Because I’m angry!” She shouted, and Samson drew back. Hadiza held back her tears, “I’m angry and frustrated, Samson. I don’t have enough power to find this fucking darkspawn, nor have I the energy to engage you in a contest of who is more sincere in their intentions. I spared you so you could feel the consequences of your actions. I gave you a punishment that fit the crime, despite what you may think.”

“And the kiss?” Samson asked bitterly, “That part of my punishment?”

Hadiza’s next words died stillborn on her lips as she gasped momentarily caught off guard. Samson took it as a sign that he now had the advantage.

“That was a mistake,” Hadiza said quietly, “a moment of weakness that I’ll not ever repeat.” Samson knew she was lying, knew it in the marrow of his bones that the fervent ardor with which she’d kissed him was anything but _weakness_. There was something volcanic beneath her skin, something scalding to the touch that needed an outlet. He’d felt it, moving like magma through her veins when he’d held her. He’d tasted it when he’d sucked her tongue into his mouth, giving into something he didn’t think he wanted. He knew Cullen couldn’t handle it, despite the man’s intentions. No, Hadiza was not a woman who caved to weakness. She did what she intended to do on her own terms.

Still, hearing the lie and knowing it for such did not lessen its sting.

She’d let him taste what Cullen saw and experienced, and now he wanted more of it, but he’d be damned if he went begging on his knees for her to toss him scraps from her table. No, if anything, he wanted it to be mutual.

Not that he deserved the sample she’d given him, but Maker he couldn’t cleanse the memory of her mouth on his from his mind so easily. All that discipline cultivated over decades had come undone beneath the imprint of her lips.

“So you say,” he said at last, “and I believe you. But are you sure you’re strong enough to scry for Corypheus?” Hadiza relaxed, seemingly relieved for the change of subject.

“No. But the longer I wait, the more time he has to gather his power. I have learned to extend my reach as far as Ferelden and Orlais. But given the potency of the magic, I wager Corypheus has not gone far.”

Samson wished he could tell her anything, but in truth, Corypheus had barely spoken of his plans. The magister had been a solitary creature, and it seemed as if his thoughts were always turned inward. Samson would gaze upon him when he dared, and the magister seemed to be looking into the distance, surveying his future empire. But words were not something Corypheus had seen fit to waste on even his closest cohorts and generals. Samson served him nonetheless, as there was an unspoken understanding in the cause. Now, he was not so sure of it all.

“I’m sorry,” Hadiza muttered, “for presuming to understand you. I thought I…I thought I was helping.”

Samson said nothing.

Hadiza sighed, running her fingers through her hair, looking bruised and weary. Samson frowned.

“You are helping,” he assured her, “I’m just not used to anyone actually…wanting to, is all.” Hadiza gave him a tired smile, but it was brief, waning into an expression of empty neutrality.

“Well, I cannot fault you for that,” she agreed, “but despite what you may think, not all of us are here to take without giving.”

“That why you became a healer?” He asked with a laugh. Hadiza smiled.

“No, I became a healer because the knight-commander of my Circle didn’t want me learning primal magic. I had been suspected of being linked to a blood mage, you see.”

“You? That’s highly unlikely.” Samson huffed. He couldn’t see Hadiza becoming a maleficar, even when desperate. Hadiza shrugged, turning out her hands.

“And yet, the boy I was in love with was a blood mage. They made him…they branded him. And they restricted me to creation magic.” Samson’s frowned. Was that allowed; to restrict a mage to only certain parts of the curriculum? It sounded dangerous in the long-run, and yet Hadiza showed deadly mastery over the primal school of magic.

“You can say it, you know,” Samson told her and Hadiza blinked, “Tranquil. It’s not a bad word, just a bad thing.”

“I know,” she whispered, “no one should have to be cut off from themselves like that. But…” She sat down again, sighing, “I don’t know if he was happier that way. I never spoke to him at length after that…I was too frightened. I hope he’s alright, wherever he is.” Samson said nothing, watching as she passed her hands over her face, trying to cleanse the memory.

And despite everything, Samson could only remember the press of her mouth, the tender and delicate strength of her arms around him. He’d felt…welcome. It was not something he’d felt, not for quite some time. But he’d felt like a stray lingering in the warmth of a doorway of a kind soul. He couldn’t turn back, or turn away. He’d said he wouldn’t go begging for her to open the door again.

But Maker! Was there any harm in wishing?


	10. Chapter 10

            They gathered in the dead of night; Dorian, slipping quietly from his quarters to make his way down to the dusty bowels of Skyhold; Aja, who left Josephine’s bed with all the subtlety of a whisper, donning her gambeson and a sword to join Dorian. Skyhold was steeped in the silence of sleep, with only the roving patrols to keep watch. Torches and candles had been doused to provide just enough light to see the path, but no more. Samson was stirred from his cell by the guard, and sent to meet the Inquisitor, who waited, garbed in a rich, velvet robe of midnight blue. This one was studded with silver thread in the shape of tiny stars, cinched at the waist with a sash of soft, shimmering gray to match her eyes. She held the scrying diadem in her hand, waiting in the center of the circle for her conspirators to assemble.

            “I’m glad you’re all here on time,” she said wryly. Dorian stifled a yawn behind his hand.

            “Yes, well, one could hardly ignore a summons from the Inquisitor,” he retorted, “I do just love waking up in the middle of the night to get up to mischief.”

            “You sure you’re ready for this?” Aja asked, ignoring Dorian’s griping as she passed Samson her sword and belt. Samson took it, easily fitting it around himself by adjusting the straps. Hadiza canted her head, her gaze seeing beyond them, weighing the decision in her mind.

            “As ready as I’ll ever be.” She said firmly, “Dorian, you’ve the potion?” The Tevinter mage produced the vial of soft, glowing blue. Samson’s brows knit as he caught the clear and piercing song of lyrium. Even now, his body craved its cold burn upon the tongue, the icy fire scorching his throat, the clarity of thought that came soon after the blue mingled in the pipes of his veins. His mouth went dry and he swallowed hard as Hadiza casually tossed back the lyrium potion and handed the empty vial back to Dorian. Samson knew his mind was turning against him. There were a few drops at the bottom of the vial. Certainly a few drops would do no harm…would not set him back so far…

            “Focus.” Aja said firmly, “Once we shut this door, it’s on. Don’t make her regret giving you a chance to prove your worth.” Samson’s lip curled but Aja’s gaze was steady; pale eyes hard and unyielding. She was not like her sister, who was as soft and compassionate as a hymn. Aja was all harsh lines, and salt. Her tongue was a blade, cutting him when he dared to stray from the path he’d been set upon. He was not sure if he would thank her later, or curse her. Either way, he bore her no ill will, but nor did her have to respect her.

            Aja continued to gaze at him, until Samson looked away, the full weight of his blood-guilt’s inextricable chain binding him once more. He had to make it right somehow, but he still had an uneasy feeling which only served to grow as Aja and Dorian took up their posts outside the door. Hadiza placed the diadem upon her head, the mask obscuring her face, the glow of lyrium crystals on the chains illuminating her eyes. She sank into a kneel that was almost obeisant in nature, as graceful as a dancer, her robe pooling around her. She had long since reached the ability to activate the spell herself and a quick look to Samson and a curt nod from him, was all the cue she needed. Her hands turned palm-up, and she spread her arms, activating the circle. Her arms came in slowly, hands forming a complex symbol and remaining there as her eyes blanked to white, milky and unseeing. The temperature in the room began to plummet as _winter stillness_ began to form around her. Ice crackled along the floor and walls, and the torches guttered and struggled in the growing cold.

            Samson heard his teeth chattering, even beneath his heavy coat.

            Hadiza was as still as living statuary, her hands poised in the spell of seeking, her circle of sigils maintaining a steady glow. Samson remembered the sword at his hip, and hoped she found her goal soon.

  

* * *

 

            Hadiza stepped from one end of Southern Thedas to the other. She was a spirit on a divine wind, as fast as a blink, as thorough as fire. With Samson having been mired in Corypheus’ essence and spells, Hadiza found tracking those tainted by red lyrium easier. Innumerable threads, tied to lifelines, littered the landscape and Hadiza chased the ones that glowed with the Blight’s corruption. She passed by the living, heard gasps as they rubbed their arms and made signs to ward off evil, though they could not see her. She crept through red templar encampments, chasing signs that would lead her to Corypheus.

            It was in a lone and forgotten mountain pass in the southern Frostbacks where she found his thread. It glowed fiercely with the Blight, but it was a darkling glow, far more intense than the others. Where theirs had been a normal lifeline tinged red, Corypheus’ was as black as the Void, shot through with angry veins of red. Hadiza dared not touch it for fear of alerting him that he was being sought out. So she followed it, slow and careful, past the ruins of a buried Haven, toward the gutted husk that was once the Temple of Sacred Ashes. He stood with the Venatori and what remained of his red templars, tall and imposing, a blighted shadow against the paleness of the moon. The thread snaked its way toward him, binding with him, and Hadiza took a deep breath and crept forward, hoping to hear him.

            “The Herald thinks she has stolen victory from us,” he said, his voice clear and deep, sending a tremor through her, “she is but a child, playing at war and magic. We shall try again at the rising of the blood moon.”  Hadiza glanced at the sky, but with the Fade’s interference, it was hard to tell what color the moon was. Everything was stained with the sickly green glow of the Fade, despite her only being halfway in it.

            “Master,” a Venatori mage ventured, “what of the sacrifices? We have gathered all we could without rousing the suspicion of the Inquisition. Have we enough?” Hadiza knew in that moment without having to ask that the mage had made an egregious error. Corypheus’ head turned, looking down at his servant, his eyes hard, his expression seemed perpetually locked into a sneer.

            “You have already drawn the attention of the Inquisition. It matters not. They will not stop us.” Hadiza swallowed, wondering if Corypheus would kill the mage for daring to question, but it seemed he had more important things on his mind. He walked forward, further into the skeletal graveyard of the desecrated temple, heedless of the corpses still frozen in the anguish of their final moments, scorched to the bones. Seeing none of his agents follow, Hadiza crept forward, clinging to the shadows, trying to see what he was about.

            “I know you are watching, Herald,” Corypheus said suddenly and Hadiza froze, her heart leaping into her throat, her mouth dry, “and I know you intend to follow me.” He was suddenly gone and Hadiza was fearful. She had to get back to her body. She had to get back before something happ—

            The assault was immediate. It was not so much physical as it was something _else_. It was as if a hand had seized her very mind, claws digging to scrape the walls of her skull. She cried out, dropping to her knees, clutching her head.

            “You think I do not know the magic of my own people?” Corypheus asked, and Hadiza’s only answer was a hoarse cry of agony. Her mind burned as Corypheus filled her head, voice booming and bursting within her, tearing her asunder. “You think you could sneak here like some thieving rat and I would not know?” Hadiza could not speak for when she opened her mouth, only anguish emerged, hot and scalding, emptying her of everything.

            “You are but a child!” Corypheus’ voice shook her bones, “Your ancestors were but babes-in-arms when I was ancient!” He was searching for something. Hadiza fought to regain control of her mouth, to beat back the proverbial claws that dug and probed, making her body sing the dirge of her own pain.

            “Would that you had died on that mountainside that night, Herald,” Corypheus’ voice was low, “but it is no matter. When your body is brought to me, you will be the first baptism upon the gates of the Black City.”

            Hadiza heard her own voice, a mewling animal in pain. When had she curled onto her side? Maker! She had to get back but Corypheus held her fast, and suddenly he loomed over her, tall as mountains and tall as a man all at once, his claws like curved sickles. He reached down.

            “Let us see from whence you deign to cast such shoddy spells.” He mused and suddenly Hadiza could see the scrying chamber around her. Her head turned, but she had not made it so. Everything was bathed in milky light. She turned her head again, saw Samson standing there, felt her mouth open as a curse was hurled at him in a tongue she’d never once wrapped her lips around.

            Corypheus had gained control of her body.

            Samson was startled, she could see, startled to see her moving while the spell still held.

            _Samson!_ Hadiza railed in her own head, flailing against the will of Corypheus. _Oh Samson! It’s not me! Kill me, now! Draw your blade if you’ve any sense at all!_

But he could not hear her shouting from within her own commandeered skull, a prisoner within the borders of her body. Corypheus continued to speak with her voice, continued to move her mouth, questioning him. She saw Samson’s brows furrow, saw his lips move in a question. And then it dawned on him. The sword flashed from its sheath and was at her throat in seconds. Maker but he was fast!

            Corypheus laughed with her voice and his, mingled together in a brackish, haunting melody that chilled the blood, and yet Samson held fast.

            He was speaking, but Hadiza could not hear him, and Corypheus spoke back, forcing her forward, lifting her chin to further expose her throat to the blade. Samson’s eyes narrowed. Corypheus was speaking again, slower, but Hadiza heard nothing, barred from her own senses as she was. She knew the blade was cold against her skin, knew Corypheus was taunting him with the deathblow he had yet to deliver. This was the worst-case scenario they had been trying to avoid.

            Hadiza’s warding circle began to flare, and one by one the sigils began to burn away. She was trapped in the circle while the spell held, but if the sigils burned away, she would be freed…and so would Corypheus.

            Samson knew this and shouted at the door, which burst open with Aja and Dorian on alert. Hadiza’s head whipped quickly, jerkily, to look at them. She was speaking, sneering most likely, and Corypheus was heedless of her skin, the blade parting the flesh of her throat just barely. A trickle of blood flowed, pooling at the hollow where her collarbones met.

            Aja shouted something, and Dorian readied a spell. Samson shut his eyes and Hadiza felt something hovering over her, like a hammer over an anvil. It came down hard, and her body crumpled to the floor. Jarred by the holy smite, Corypheus’ hold on her was lost and the connection severed as Hadiza was forcibly thrown back into her body, curled and exhausted on the stone floor. The diadem cracked, falling from her face like a broken cage. She did not move, but heard her own breathless sobs and whimpers, quiet and shameful as she realized she had full control of herself once more. She had never been possessed, and now she understood a little as to why mages were feared. Her sister was there, hauling her into her arms, stroking her hair. Hadiza trembled, the shadow of Corypheus’ terrible presence staining her soul.

            Samson leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. He’d drawn upon every last bit of residual lyrium in his body, and he was bone-dry and thirsty. Dorian met his gaze and gave him a subtle duelist’s nod. Samson waved it off, and quietly as they could, began to carry Hadiza back to her chambers.

 

* * *

 

            The sun was beginning to rise when they lay Hadiza down and for the second time, Samson stood in her chambers, feeling completely unclean amidst the powdery perfume fragrance and cleanliness of her bedchamber. Hadiza lay in stillness, exhausted to the marrow. Her trembling had stopped at least, but there was no telling what might have transpired. Samson, for his part, only wished to sit down but loathed doing so. He wasn’t even supposed _be_ here, and he felt as if he would soil the furniture for all that.

            “For Andraste’s sake, sit down, man,” Aja snapped, “you’re dead on your feet.” Samson couldn’t muster the strength to argue, so he sat in the chair by Hadiza’s bedside, elbows on his knees and his forehead in his hands. He could have fallen asleep right then and there, truly.

            “What happened in there?” Dorian asked, “How did…nevermind, I think I know.” He examined Hadiza’s arms, gingerly arranging her limbs, and found no signs of corruption.

            “As far as I can tell she’s clean,” Samson said, “but he can only possess people who carry the Blight within them. Hadi— _she_ doesn’t have that. It’s why he called the Grey Wardens to him to begin with.” He felt odd using her name in front of them, and so refrained.

            It seemed their plan, for the most part, had been a success, and yet they had not expected Cullen to come into Hadiza’s quarters that morning. Hearing the door to her chambers open, Aja let out a breathless laugh.

            “I’ll stall the commander,” Dorian said, “you,” he looked Samson up and down, “make yourself scarce.”

            “I’m not hiding like some skeevy sneak thief, Vint.” Samson growled. Aja threw up her hands.

            “I’ll distract Cullen.” She made her way to the staircase, greeting Cullen in her most cheerful and booming voice, citing that Hadiza was currently not receiving company. Cullen’s distressed voice echoed into the chamber and Samson knew the moment the man ascended the steps and saw him, there would be hell to pay. He saw Dorian’s smug and encouraging smile, and grumbled beneath his breath, rising to go and stand behind Hadiza’s changing screen.

            “Is that the commander?” Dorian asked, joining Aja by the staircase, “Up so early to come and see the Inquisitor? You know she’s not a morning person…”

            Samson frowned, crossing his arms, loathe to touch anything. A small table with pullout drawers was next to him. Atop it were a few cosmetics. He wondered what Hadiza’s routine was like, found himself imagining her rubbing scented oils into her satiny skin, smelling of rose water and peonies. He imagined her donning her armor behind this screen, methodical and serene, taking the time to fix her hair and check herself in the small hand mirror on the table. It was gold and ornate, decorated with vines, and quintessentially Hadiza. She had expensive tastes.

            “Maker’s breath, what happened to her?” Cullen’s voice was closer, he was standing over Hadiza, worrying over her like some mother hen. Samson felt his lip curl.

            “Overexertion with her magic last night,” Aja explained gently, “nothing to worry about.” Cullen glared at her.

            “Nothing to worry about, her throat has blood on it!”

            Samson winced and swore softly under his breath. Sod it all, he’d have to go out there and explain. Aja may have been a capable liar, but Cullen was a battering ram when it came to getting answers. Sometimes literally; the man was not averse to using brute force if necessary.

            Taking a deep breath to tune out the rising alarm in Cullen’s voice, Samson stepped out from behind the screen and into view.

            “ _Kaffas_.” Dorian said. Aja halted, and Cullen turned. Seeing Samson standing there, a sword at his hip, and looking like he’d been here for far longer than he should have been, made Cullen’s face red with fury.

            “Ah shit,” Aja muttered.

            “Rutherford,” Samson held up his hands, approaching the group, “I can explain.”

            “You’d damn well better.” Cullen ground out, about a heartbeat away from breaking Samson’s neck.

            “She asked me to…keep watch over her while she was delving into her magic.”

            “She _what_?!”

            Samson paused, waiting for Cullen to rein in his fury before he continued. He explained to Cullen the nature of Hadiza’s research over the weeks. He explained it to Cullen as a templar would to another, as a templar superior would to a subordinate. As he did, he stood a little straighter, felt a little more confident. Cullen’s expression passed from disbelieving to angry and back again. Hadiza groaned in her sleep, coming awake as she blinked in the growing harshness of the sunlight coming through her windows.

            “Maker…” She croaked, her voice hoarse from misuse, “…Cullen?” Cullen turned to her briefly, but then in a swift movement, closed the distance between himself and Samson and struck him across the face with a closed fist. Samson stumbled, holding his jaw. Before, he had laughed when Cullen’s anger got the better of him. This time, he was too old and tired for it.

            “This how you repay the man that save the Inquisitor’s life, Rutherford?” Samson demanded. Hadiza had a little more energy, now, and she struggled to get out of bed, moving as if her own body was foreign to her.

            “You allowed her to be possessed! You nearly let her become an…an…”

            “I’m not an Abomination, Cullen.” Hadiza said wearily, “Samson smothered the magic in time. You should thank him. He’s been a…tremendous help in getting me to find Corypheus.”

            Samson said nothing and Cullen whirled on her.

            “Hadiza, you play a dangerous game! You know the risk! You knew! And you kept this from me!” He shouted. Samson frowned. He’d had enough.

            “She kept it from you because she knew you’d react like this,” Samson snapped, “for fuck’s sake, Rutherford. She’s on the mend. I prevented her from coming to harm, just like she told me to. This isn’t the Circle.” Cullen’s mouth opened, then shut, the white lines of tension around his lips evident as the rage simmered in his eyes.

            Hadiza rubbed her temples.

            “Everyone, can you give Cullen and I some time alone? Please? Aja, escort Samson back to his cell.” At everyone’s hesitation Hadiza lost her patience, “Now.” Her voice held the crack of a whip in its tone and Aja understood the gravity of what was about to happen. Samson unbelted the sword, handing it over to Aja, and with Dorian, they left.

            Hadiza and Cullen were alone.

            “Cullen,” Hadiza began and he pinned her with a glower that might have worked on his men, but only served to raw her nerves further, “Cullen I am sorry to have withheld information from you but I could not be sure.”

            “Sure of what? You trust Samson—the _war criminal_ —but not your own…not me?” His voice held something rawer than anger…it was hurt. Hadiza bit her lip, feeling that there was no way to assuage him.

            “Cullen, it is not a question of trust. It is that…it is that I knew had I told you what I intended, you would have tried to stop me.” Her hands were folded in her lap, but she longed to wring them, her nerves still frayed thin from her ordeal.

            “Of course I would have tried to stop you, Hadiza!” Cullen cried, “What you attempted was dangerous and absolute madness.” Hadiza frowned, her expression hard.

            “And because of it, I know now where our enemy waits.” She retorted, “Even Leliana’s scouts have turned up nothing but dead-end whispers of rumor and cold and abandoned encampments.” Cullen was frozen in tight-lipped fury, but he could not find words to give it a voice, could not do anything but convey with expression alone how foolish Hadiza had been to attempt such a feat on her own with only that traitorous fool to ward her.

            “So,” Cullen breathed, “what now will you do?”

            “We will go to Corypheus and destroy him.” Hadiza said firmly, “He…he knows I am coming for him and he will be prepared to meet me, but I think we are ready to put an end to this, don’t you agree?”

            “Yes,” Cullen replied, “but what of us? Hadiza, you’ve been distant with me since we came back from the Wilds.” Hadiza said nothing, looking at the floor. Cullen frowned again, and Hadiza turned away from him. He felt like there was a light going out, drifting further beyond his reach.

            “I asked you once if you could ever come to care for a mage. For me. I asked you because I knew a little of what happened to you, and I…I understood your apprehension, Cullen.” Hadiza turned to him, and he stepped closer to her, but they had never been further apart than in those moments.

            “I can,” Cullen said, “I do! Hadiza…Maker! This isn’t easy for me, you know that. It’s not…it’s not something I would have considered before.” Hadiza sucked in a breath and then exhaled sharply.

            “No,” she said coolly, “I suppose it is hard to expect much from someone who once said mages weren’t actually people.”

            Cullen drew back, his face going ashen.

            “You think I didn’t speak with the Champion at length?” Hadiza laughed, knifing her fingers through her hair, “Andraste’s tears, Cullen. She told me exactly what you thought of…our kind. And Samson added context to those thoughts.”

            “Hadiza, that was before. Before this…us…” Cullen swore under his breath, “I love you, you know this.” Hadiza opened her arms in a gesture of surrender.

            “Is it me you love, Cullen? Or the Inquisitor? Would I have caught your eye without the lure of my station? Or did you expect me to be anything other than myself with you?”

            “I don’t understand…” Cullen began but Hadiza was angry, the kind of cold anger that froze in the blood, filling her mind with righteous purpose.

            “Look at me, Cullen.” She said fiercely, “You knew from the first what I was and said so. But in knowing this, could you have struck me down when my magic went too far? Could you have made the blow?” Cullen tried to digest the words, but it was too much, too fast, too soon.

            “Hadiza, I told you…it’s not that simple. You’re a…”

            “A valuable asset to the Inquisition,” Hadiza’s voice was biting, “so long as I have the Anchor. Samson would have killed me if he had no choice. Could you have done the same?”

            “Samson doesn’t _love_ you, Hadiza, of course he could have killed you without qualm.” Cullen shot back. Hadiza’s eyes darkened momentarily, like a flame guttering in a breeze, or lightning in cloud cover. She did not answer and Cullen felt his heart drop into his stomach. Hadiza’s expression was sad, as if she’d not delivered the silent blow at all.

            “You haven’t…Hadiza, you didn’t…” Cullen did not even want to think on it but Hadiza’s eyes hardened, glittering like silverite.

            “Do not insult me, Cullen,” she snapped, “I would not do such a thing. But for all your talk of how weak and craven he is, he has demonstrated a remarkable sense of personal integrity I had not expected. And he has been nothing but cooperative since the day we brought him in.”

            “He has no choice,” Cullen ground out, “and there is naught left for him in this world, with his allies scattered, and him surrounded by his enemy.”

            Hadiza laughed, but it was a bitter, quiet thing.

            “Are we his enemy, Cullen? Were we ever the heart at which he aimed the sword of his rage?” She glanced toward the stairwell leading down into the main hall. “I do not think Samson ever wished to do aught but see the Chantry pay for the crime of neglecting its templars.”

            “That is not an excuse for what he’s done, Hadiza. For Andraste’s sake he has killed innocent people.” Cullen protested.

            “Yes,” Hadiza agreed, “he has. And he has justified this with a valid point. The methods of his vengeance are unforgivable, Cullen. But I can understand the why of it.”

            “So that’s it, then? You would leave me for him? Your heart has always been gentle, Hadiza, but I question your judgment in this.” Cullen always knew how to incite her anger and Hadiza snorted, eyes flashing dangerously.

            “Again, you insult me. I love you, Cullen,” she breathed, “but I love _me_ more. And I am not—and I want you to understand this clearly—I am not leaving you for anyone but myself. It has become increasingly clear that my comfort with my magic unsettles you. And I’d rather not unsettle you and risk further hurting you.”

            _There’s nothing else for it,_ she thought sadly, _I can’t breathe when you make me feel as if I am taking air from you._

            Cullen sighed, trying to sort out the maelstrom within, trying to come to terms with what she was saying. He didn’t want to believe, but he knew a lost battle when he saw one. Shutting his eyes, he tried to block out the sight of her, tried in vain to steel himself against the hurt, tried to tell himself that this was for the best…for both of them.

            “Very well,” he said at last, opening his eyes, “will that be all, Inquisitor?”

            He saw Hadiza draw back in surprise, saw the startled hurt in her eyes; and, Maker preserve him, he took joy in it. He did not want to be the only one in pain during this bloody transformation, but seeing her hurt brought with it a twinge of guilt. Even now he longed to go to her, put his arms around her, beg her to stay and give them more time. But Hadiza did not wish to turn the hourglass. Instead, she shattered it.

            “Yes,” she said quietly, her voice a controlled thrum of cool cordiality, “I’ll need a day to convalesce and then we can draw up a suitable strategy for our final clash with Corypheus.”

            So it would be thus.

            Cullen drew in a deep breath, hating and loving the scent of her in the room, and then he bowed, cool and professional, keeping his expression hard.

            “Very well, Inquisitor,” he murmured, rising to meet her eyes, “I wish you a speedy recovery.” And with that, he took his leave. He didn’t look back, didn’t need to in order to feel the weight of her gaze on him. Hadiza watched him go, swallowing hard. There was no time to weep, and she was far too exhausted to do so. For a while, she stood there in the quiet of her ornate bedchamber, and summarily became aware of how alone she was. Was this the price she paid for being the Inquisitor?

            Or was this just what it meant to be Hadiza Trevelyan?


	11. Chapter 11

            Hadiza had a day to recover, as she requested, and in that day she pondered exactly what sort of stratagem she would implement to defeat Corypheus. The Wilds were a mess, and their men still holed up there, trying to restore order and make what repairs to the place they could. With the bulk of her army missing, she had to rely on her companions. But she was not so sure what that truly meant.

            And like a fool, she sought Samson out for answers.

            He was finishing laying the stone for the foundations of the ruined wall leading to the war room, and he came to her when summoned, as he had little choice. He all but belonged to her, and he would be lying if he did not say he was perishing from curiosity regarding her condition. When he was admitted to her chambers he found her standing by her desk, reading a letter, her quill dangling in her free hand, her expression pensive.

            “It’s dangerous for me to be here.” He muttered to himself, and Hadiza looked up and all at once her felt himself let go of the doubt. He waited, frozen as sure as if his feet had sprouted roots, watching her study him, her pale eyes cutting him apart. She set her quill aside, lifted her hand, and made a gesture for him to come to her. Maker help him, he went to her, barely aware of himself closing the distance. At first, he wanted to gather her up like a precious bolt of silk, to feel the weight of her in his arms, to taste once more the ambrosia of her mouth. It was as close to the Maker as he’d get at this point.

            Instead he stopped just short of her reach, and at this distance he saw the bruises beneath her eyes, the slight puffiness, the redness of tears around the silver. Her beauty was not ruined, but it was marred by grief.

            “It was said,” she murmured to him, setting the letter she’d been reading back on her desk, “that you were once an exemplary templar. That you once brought a measure of luster to the Order’s good name.” Samson did not like where she was going with this, did not like to revisit memories of a time when he felt life was worth living everyday. He hated being reminded of who and what he once was.

            “Everyone keeps asking me why I spared you,” she continued, “why I let you live to walk bareheaded around my keep, condemned only to backbreaking labor. They do not see what I glimpsed; the man that was. The man you could be again.”

            “I can never be that man again.” Samson said fiercely, “And you are foolish to think it, Hadiza. There are no deeds that can cleanse the stain of what I’ve done. I know this, now.” Hadiza narrowed her eyes to slits, her mouth set in a line.

            “I don’t think you do, Samson,” she said in that dangerously quiet tone, “it is easy enough to speak the words, and perhaps here in Skyhold you have seen the faces of those who bear the lingering scars of your actions, but I don’t think you’ve reached clarity.” She waved her hand dismissively.

            “In any case, that is not why I called you. I need your help, again.” Samson blinked, slow and in time with an exasperated sigh.

            “You’ll pardon me if I’m apprehensive, my lady,” he said irritably, “the last time I helped you, you nearly wound up possessed and your precious Commander wanted to tear me limb from limb.” He didn’t miss her flinch at the mention of Cullen. Ah, so she’d finally culled him from her side, had she? Samson could not say he was happy to see her in this state, but nor could he be truly saddened by the unspoken news. Cullen had been prowling about in a black fury for the better part of the day, snapping curt orders at his men, growling in impatience when they weren’t followed to the letter. Samson knew some of that fury was Cullen, and the other part having a lack of lyrium to take the edge off. Thinking on it made him thirsty. The Inquisition had a well-stocked supply of the blue, having commandeered the trade from the Chantry.

            Samson shook his head. He was clean, now. He just had to keep it up.

            “I wasn’t a bad templar,” he told her, and Hadiza relaxed, “and apparently I was good enough to earn the knight-commander’s sun shield back when I was a spry lad in my twenties.” He rubbed his arm, nervous, uneasy. This was a wound that had long since turned to scar-tissue, and he knew he took a risk revealing it to Hadiza. But he had faith—a faith that was faltering and fragile—in her compassion.

            “What happened?” She asked him, and there was a swell of it in her voice, and Samson felt as if he were sewn up and she picked at the threads, fraying the stitches, making him come apart before her.

            “You’ve heard the songs, Inquisitor,” he said sullenly, “they’re not entirely wrong. I _did_ get expelled for helping a mage carry letters back and forth to his lady. Meredith was of a mind that mages weren’t people.” He noticed her flinch at the phrase, “But I don’t—didn’t—think one had to hate mages to love the Order. One could serve with absolute faith and conviction and still treat mages with the respect and care they deserved.”

            The old anger brimmed in him, salty and bitter on the tongue, and Hadiza made no move to stop it. She, with her healer’s hands and heart, sought to lance the wound of poison.

            “There was no harm in it!” Samson snapped, and Hadiza watched him steadily, watched him contend with the vicious eidolons of two years past. “They were just letters. No talk of escape or anything of the sort. Just a boy wanting to keep in touch with his lady love…” Samson walked toward the window behind her desk, stared out at the sprawl of the keep, and the mountains beyond. He was elsewhere, the poison of his hatred curdling in his blood, his bitterness at all that had been taken from him woken anew. Hadiza continued to watch and wait, saying nothing.

            “And Meredith had Cullen at her beck and call,” Samson’s voice was low, almost guttural, “you know why? Because he felt the same. He may not have been as bad as the others—like Alrik, the scum—but he firmly believed Meredith wielding the brand with impunity was right. Mages who’d passed their Harrowing without so much as a hesitant grimace. All of ‘em, branded for infractions Meredith deemed unforgivable. He didn’t think mages were people either.”

            Samson turned to Hadiza, looked her over, shaking his head with a defeated laugh.

            “They use us both, Inquisitor,” he raked his hands through his greasy hair, “mages and templars. Weapons in the left and right hand of the Chantry, and sometimes used against one another. They leash us with lyrium; make us their glorified army of mage-hunters. And you and yours are just cattle to them, a threat to their authority.”

            Hadiza lifted her chin a little. The Chantry had not been kind to her either, but she had been weaned on the belief that mages—that _she_ —was inherently dangerous. She had believed it, when she thought she would be one of the truly faithful—a templar. A bad dream and a room turned into a winter wasteland had changed all of that.

            “I stood against all that, and look where it got me.” Samson spat contemptuously, “But men like Cullen get elevated to knight-commander status for maintaining the status quo.” Samson’s anger burned out, dimming to embers, only flaring as he breathed in and then out. “I lost everything. Everyone; all because I wanted to change things; wanted to see templars treated as more than just interchangeable tools. Wanted to see mages studying without cringing in fear every time a templar looked their way. It wasn’t supposed to end like this.”

            Hadiza’s brows furrowed, her eyes softening, and she knew then what had to be done. This was a rare glimpse to the man beneath the blood-laced armor, and she sighed heavily, shutting her eyes. After careful thought, she opened them.

            “It doesn’t have to.” She said softly, “You’re still alive, and thus there is still hope to effect some change.” She hesitated, suddenly realizing the breadth of what she spoke, “Even…even if you do not live to see it.”

            Samson stared at the ground.

            “I’m tired, Inquisitor,” he muttered, “Cullen was right about that much. I’m well past my prime and any day now this corruption will take me. Can’t say I won’t be glad for it. I know the world will be.”

            “But…” Hadiza’s words were swallowed and she shook her head, “No. You don’t get to give up. I did not spare you the executioner’s blade that you may wallow in self-pity, Samson. Where is your shield?”

            Samson looked up, gave her a crooked self-deprecating smile.

            “Pawned it for some dust ages ago in Lowtown. Fetched a few silvers for it. For all I know it could be anywhere.” Hadiza frowned. This would be more difficult, then.

            “You trying to give me back my weapons and make me fight in your army?”

            “No. But such a thing should not be lost to the back-alley markets of thieves and cutthroats. Still, if you are volunteering…”

            “I’m not.” Samson said firmly. “I’m in no condition to fight, and I may be the Inquisition’s prisoner, but you all are still a tool of the Chantry. I won’t be yoked to that.”

            Hadiza returned his crooked smile with one of her own.

            “And what of me?” She asked him, “Will you fight for me?”

            Samson said nothing, looking toward the staircase. He didn’t have an answer, not one that did not fill him with the certainty of unalloyed joy. To raise his sword again! To find redemption in the heat of battle and die a hero to…to _someone_ , maybe himself! It was a heady feeling, and the thought of fighting by her side, for her…it was not too far off the mark either.

            “It is romantic thought, _princess_ ,” Samson chuckled, “but has no place here.” Hadiza smiled, shrugging one elegant shoulder. She was of a mind to allow Samson his bitterness, to let him cling to the sinking ship of his hatred. He was alive, and she found that that was far more important. He would better serve this way.

            “I’m no princess,” she mused, smiling, “but it is a nice sentiment.”

            Samson snorted derisively.

            “Wasn’t meant to be a compliment, Inquisitor.” He sneered, “You sit on your pretty throne and decide the fates of others as if you’re picking items off a menu. Only a monarch can be that detached from reality.”

            Hadiza sucked in a breath and then blew it out in a slow, controlled motion. He’d gotten under her skin again. Good.

            “You trying to goad me into hurting you, Samson?” She asked, “Is that it? Want me to make it easy for you to hate me?”

            “No need,” Samson spat and Hadiza let out a harsh laugh.

            “Maker! You’re a formidable warrior, Samson, but an atrocious liar. You no more hate me than you hate Cullen. Your mouth said as much the other night.” Samson felt his cheeks burn, not from shame or embarrassment, but somewhat else. He turned his face away. She was too much for him—too _good_ for him—her figure wreathed in the flame of sunset as she watched him, weighing him constantly. Hadiza Trevelyan was no princess, he knew, but the title may as well have been hers. Only a monarch could look upon him thusly without blinking.

            “Sometimes my mouth tells lies my voice won’t.” He attempted banter and Hadiza chuckled, and then laughed, stepping closer, bringing with her the scent of something warm and sweet clinging to her skin and hair. For a moment, she appeared more predator than woman and Samson was grateful for his height.

            “Care to lie some more?” She asked him quietly. She was too close, and she smelled too good, and he’d gone too many nights painfully aware that he knew what her mouth felt like against his, that he had tasted only a single drop of how responsive she was. Maker, he was willing to put coin down and wager that she moved like a dream in a man’s arms.

            “What do you want from me, Hadiza?” Her name came out like a command, bringing her up short, breaking the spell she sought to weave over them both. Her eyes narrowed briefly, but her mask faltered, shifting. He was briefly able to glimpse the woman beneath the veneer, and she was bruised and wearied, clearly lacking in sleep.

            “I want you to help me.” She said quietly, “Because you were closest to him. You’re the blade he won’t see coming.”

            Samson could not say if he were shocked or angry with her, and so he opened his mouth, and then closed it, jaw setting firmly.

            “Or I’m the blade you _will_ see coming.” He said, “What makes you think I’m trustworthy? You’ve swords aplenty to guard your back in the coming fight. What makes you think I won’t take a chance and put mine in it?” Hadiza’s eyes glimmered in the deepening darkness. She absently passed her hand over the candle at her desk, lighting it.

            “You put the nail in your coffin when you failed Corypheus at the Well of Sorrows, Samson,” she told him, and for her harsh words there was no cruelty to limn them, “whatever purpose you once served him is lost, and your sword in my back would bring you nothing but more blood on your hands.”

            “I’ll have killed the Inquisitor.” Samson shot back, “I hear tell that’s a nigh impossible feat.” Hadiza tilted her head, eyes fever bright with humor.

            “Yes. And in killing me, you will have earned the ire of Thedas twice-over, and would still know death at the hands of a would-be godling. Your path ends in death, Samson, be it by corruption or somewhat else. I am offering you a chance to die as the warrior you are.”

            “Why?” Samson asked fiercely, “Why offer me this? Why not kill me? You’ve got me here, defenseless. You’ve had me on my knees, Hadiza. You’ll never have a better chance than now.” He glanced at her desk, searching for something. Finding nothing he glanced at her hands, loose by her sides.

            “I don’t want you dead, Samson. I don’t want anyone else to die.” Her voice was even, calm as the sea, but he could feel the storm beneath. He’d spent too much time in her company to not feel it.

            “Do you want their names?” She asked softly and Samson looked away.

            “I remember their faces well enough.” He muttered, “Would you have me fight and avenge them with my death?” Hadiza blinked slowly, but her expression was unreadable.

            “It is a romantic thought,” she quoted his words back to him, “but it has no place here. If your death at my hands would serve no one, then your death in battle would serve even less.” She turned away from him, “I want you to fight with me. And…if it is not too much to ask, I want you to live, Samson.”

            “Why?” Samson hated that this was the one question to which she would give no answer; none that he understood anyway. He watched the back of her head for a moment, the silence between them growing like a chasm. She was shutting herself away from everyone, steeling herself for her own death. He wagered she’d never truly reckoned the cost of her position until now.

            “You’re scared.” He said at last and saw the line of her shoulders go tense, her quiet intake of breath barely a gasp. Samson sighed, frowning. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

            “I don’t know.” Her voice was a ghost for all its quiet, but she said nothing else, and didn’t turn to face him either. He moved closer, tentative, reaching out to rest a hand on her silk-clad shoulder.

            “You have some loyal friends and a blood-mad sister who are going into this fight with you. All of them would follow you, and they have. What difference could I make?” Samson surprised himself. What difference had he made thus far, save to bring the ruin of a red tide upon the world? What of the mages he smuggled from Kirkwall? How many actually survived to live and breathe the air of freedom? How many wound up slaves in Tevinter? How many died in their escape? How many did Meredith successfully hunt down? He thought of Maddox, and his hand on her shoulder unconsciously tightened its grip.

            The tally of the living was never given to anyone to know.

            “It makes no difference,” Hadiza said, “just to me.” Her voice faltered. “It’s important to me. And I think…in some part of yourself it is important to you too.”

            “Why?” He asked again in a low voice, “And don’t give me some Maker-bedamned song and dance, Hadiza.” He needed to hear her say it, almost as badly as she needed to just let the words out. He was scared too, scared of what it might mean. Hadiza turned to look at him and he could see it all over her face, sitting in her eyes like the sun cresting the horizon. She held it prisoner within herself, and he wanted her to free it, or else he’d go mad wondering.

            Instead, she kissed him.

            Samson didn’t have time to react, because he was forced to feel the familiar softness of her mouth, and his arms went around her, instinctive, as if she simply belonged there. But she could never belong there, could she? Hadiza Trevelyan would never belong to anyone, least of all to someone like him. But here she was, lips on his, and him…straining against his own self-discipline. He wanted—Maker he _wanted_!—to hear the words of affirmation he craved, even more than he wanted to kiss the skin beneath the silk, to breathe deeply of her scent, to indulge every fantasy that ever crept into his dreaming hours.

            He pushed her away with a frustrated groan.

            She braced herself against the desk, staring at him, lips parted. Samson avoided looking at her face, fearing he’d drop the reins of control and let the fucking Maker deal him a good hand for once. He knifed his fingers through his hair.

            “You’d betray the Commander for me? Your reputation? Am I worth it, Inquisitor? Or are you just indulging some dirty fancy of yours?” His tone turned contemptuous but it did not seem to affect her.

            “Betray Cullen?” She wondered aloud, “Cullen and I aren’t…you think this is some ploy to get back at him? You think my desires revolve around that of another?” She demanded. Samson’s frown smoothed over into concern.

            “No.” He bit out, “I would never imply that you were like that. But how much of this is just the lure of the forbidden?”

            “Forbidden to _whom_?” She demanded, eyes flashing. Samson stood his ground. He’d not be cowed by her, not tonight, not with a battle on the horizon.

            “Forbidden to _you_ ,” he snapped, “I’m your prisoner. You’re the Inquisitor. You could have your way with me here and now, certainly, and none would dare question it.” He watched the blood drain from her face as the realization dawned on her, “And then, when you’ve had your fun, princess; when your sheltered little mage heart had wrung me limp of every dirty fantasy you’ve entertained in that pretty head of yours…you’ll run back to the Commander. I know my role in this story, Inquisitor.”

            Bitterness tasted sweeter on foreign tongues, he realized, and regretted the words as soon as he spat them out. Hadiza stared at him, eyes wide.

            “You presume much,” she whispered, swallowing hard. Samson saw something in her eyes he hadn’t meant to put there, and he wished he’d thought harder before opening his fool mouth. He’d thought…

            “Shit…” He muttered, “I didn’t mean…” Hadiza blinked several times, trying to school her face to calm.

            “I’ve an Inquisition to run, Samson,” she said airily, “and you’ve a battle to prepare for.” She inclined her head toward the staircase, “You can see yourself out.”

            He searched her face; saw no trace of the dawn in her eyes, only the chilly winter of wounded pride. Silently cursing himself, he turned from her and walked away.

 

* * *

 

            It was said that for every heart, there was its intended soul mate and its ill-fated thorn. Hadiza wondered, staring at the long-dead embers of her fireplace, which role she now played to whom, and which roles these two very different men had been slated to play. She did not think she had the courage to face the answer, and so instead, continued to let her thoughts chase themselves in circles, growing louder in the already chaotic disquiet of her mind.

            “You know,” a light and airy voice mused, “you’d save yourself a great deal of trouble if you just fucked him.”  Hadiza startled, dropping the cup of tea she’d been holding. The delicate cup shattered on the floor, spilling the contents into the channels and cracks in the stone. She stood up with a quiet curse, turning, the Anchor crackling in response to her sudden strain of alertness. Quiet laughter danced in the air around her.

            “Going to toss me into the Fade?” The voice asked and Hadiza frowned, making a fist, “If it’s any consolation, you would eventually succeed, but you’d bleed out and die afterward.” The voice was right in front of her, but something cold and metal lightly caressed her cheek.

            Ariadne shimmered into view, a blade in hand, pressed against Hadiza’s throat. She grinned, and with a flick of her wrist, reversed the grip, quickly passing it behind her back where Hadiza heard it slide into a hidden sheath.

            “Most people use the door,” Hadiza muttered, “or at least have the decency to wait until I’m dressed, first.” She tightened her robe for emphasis. Ariadne seemed unbothered by this, and shrugged.

            “I did use the door,” she said smoothly, “your servant didn’t even see me come in after him.” She watched Hadiza stalk toward her changing screen, moving closer to keep their conversation quiet.

            “You going to tell me why you dragged me across Thedas?” Ariadne asked. Hadiza pulled up her breeches, lacing them in angry, jerking motions, muttering to herself.

            “There’s an item I need you to retrieve for me in Kirkwall.” Hadiza ground out. Ariadne idly peered over the contents of Hadiza’s desk, reading snatches of various missives left open, fiddling with Hadiza’s signet ring which was covered in an oily film of wax from recent use.

            “Oh? And the nature of this item?”

            Hadiza shimmied into her leather jerkin, reaching to tie her sash around the waist in an easy and familiar motion.

            “The sun-shield of the templar knight-commander.” Hadiza said hopping on one leg as she put on her boots. Ariadne laughed.

            “Isn’t this a job for your Commander?” She asked and Hadiza let out a grunt as she buckled up one greave, up and over her knee.

            “No. The shield was sold on the black market. It had magical properties so more than likely, it wound up in the Black Emporium.”

            Ariadne dropped the signet ring, and not entirely on purpose. Hadiza emerged from behind her changing screen, smoothing out the bell sleeves of her shirt, and reaching for her staff, which had collapsed into a hafted blade. The focus shimmered briefly at her touch, and she smirked.

            “Problem?” She asked. Ariadne shook her head, blinking away her apprehension.

            “Of course not,” she said, “but the Black Emporium is not exactly a place one simply goes to, you know this.” Hadiza ran her fingertips over the blade of her staff, flicking it once with her finger.

            “I know,” she agreed, “but if anyone can reach it, you can. And if anyone can find the item, you can.”

            “You’ve a lot of faith in me for someone who was incensed at my existence not a handful of months ago.” Ariadne said wryly. Hadiza smiled, giving a droll shrug of her shoulders. For a moment, neither of them spoke, and Hadiza noticed a subtle shiver run through Ariadne’s body.

            “Oh!” Hadiza swept toward the fireplace, casting to revive the dead embers. “How rude of me. I forget that you’ve been posted in the Approach all this time.” Ariadne came to stand before the fire, and visibly relaxed as the warmth seeped into her body. She didn’t look at her sister, but she was hyperaware of her presence, moving on the peripheral of her vision.

            “I have faith in a lot of people, it seems,” Hadiza said sadly, “but Leliana vouches for your skill and your discretion. It’s not as if I’m sending you to kill someone.” Ariadne gave a wry smile.

            “You’d be better served if you were, Inquisitor,” she laughed, “I am far more proficient in killing than stealing.”

            “Why?” Hadiza asked and Ariadne hesitated, curling her fingers away from the heat of the fire and turning to face her sister. She turned out her palms, spreading her arms.

            “It is what I am trained to do,” she explained, “above all else. Making people disappear is my modus operandi. But…that is not to say I won’t undertake this mission. I am curious as to why this shield is so important to you.”

            Hadiza pursed her lips.

            “Then stow your curiosity and be off.” She said acidly. Ariadne’s brows went up and she laughed.

            “No need to bare your little fangs at me, Inquisitor. I have no interest in prying. Did Cullen lose his shield on the way out of Kirkwall?”

            “Ariadne.”

            “Alright, alright. I’m going.”

            Hadiza watched her go, blinking several times as Ariadne simply blurred out of sight. She heard no footsteps, no door opening and closing, and wondered just what exit the woman took to leave…if she left at all. Suddenly uncomfortable with that knowledge, Hadiza made her way to the war room.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feelings. Some humor. Whatever.

            Samson hadn’t spoken to her in days, and the sting of her absence was keenly felt. The days felt dimmer, and he found he missed their conversations, their banter, and her silly laughter. He wished he hadn’t insulted her, but he saw them going down a path he wasn’t sure he was ready to walk, no matter how much he yearned for it. He hadn’t meant to grow fond of her, but he was, Maker he was passing fond. The days were shorter but lasted far too long without her summons to break up the monotony. All around him, Skyhold shifted toward preparing for winter. Grain stores were checked, and supplies were stowed for the coming season, as the passes into the Frostbacks would soon be obscured and blocked by heavy snowfall. He felt its chill in his bones, shivering in his rough-spun coat as he helped Master Dennet see to the mounts.

            A week passed, perhaps two, and still no word from her.

            Samson began to fear that perhaps he’d crossed a line, and that mayhap he’d shut the door on the one chance he had at something…or maybe it was never there to begin with. He couldn’t say, and to dwell on the answer would be to court more reasons to spite himself, and so he turned his mind to his work. The ruined tower was nearly finished, though no purpose had been determined for it yet. The wall near the ambassador’s office was done, and Samson was pleased with himself for that accomplishment. There would be no more biting drafts sneaking beneath Lady Montilyet’s door to rustle her papers and chill her despite the cheery fire she kept burning in the fireplace.

            The days bled together, and with the help of the tincture Hadiza had seen brewed, the pain of the red lyrium was eased. He no longer felt as if something had splintered within the confines of his bowels, worming its way through the soft, weakened tissue of his stomach, but he did ache. Some nights, he dreamed only of the blue song, spinning its notes to echo the Chant, and other nights he dreamed of the red’s stronger more brackish chorus, and he would awaken as if in a fever, thirsty…so thirsty for that which he’d renounced and that which was denied him. The water he was allotted in his private cell was never enough. Nothing quenched the thirst for lyrium, no matter how refreshing and cool. He felt himself tempted, slipping away, and so he did the only thing he could: he sought out the commander.

            Cullen did not bestow upon him an ounce of sympathy, and Samson would have resented him had he done so. Still, to have him looking at him as if he were something stuck to his boot heel did little for his scraps of pride.

            “Don’t you have work to do?” He asked harshly. Samson stood in Cullen’s office, trying to will the tremble from his body. He’d not be the fodder for gossip that he’d trembled in the presence of their savior—the former templar who did what was _right_. No, it was thirst and pain that rattled his aging bones, naught else.

            “How did you do it?” He asked and Cullen blinked, pausing in his writing to stare at Samson. Samson stared back. “How did you get off of the dust?”

            Something in Cullen shifted momentarily, a hesitation born of what could only be an onslaught of memories, a search for words as he decided how best to answer him.

            “It wasn’t easy,” Cullen said at last, his voice gentler, “but it can be done. You…” He took Samson in, for the first time in a long while, truly looked upon his former friend, and felt something twinge what he thought were fortified heartstrings.

            “The corruption will take me either way,” Samson told him, “but…I think I’d much rather die knowing I wasn’t a slave to the stuff.”

            “It is a little late for that,” Cullen said, almost sadly, “has the Arcanist made any headway?” Samson thought for a moment. He hadn’t thought to ask Dagna for help. The dwarf probably knew more about lyrium than the mages did. She’d be able to help.

            “Inquisitor ordered the Arcanist to stop poking about when I got sick.” He said instead, and then turned to leave, “I should get back to work. Sorry to have disturbed you, Commander.” As he left, Cullen called him back.

            “Samson!” Samson looked over his shoulder, not having the courage or strength to do much more than that. Cullen hesitated again. “See to it that you don’t take ill. Winters here are brutal and supplies are slow to arrive.” Samson smiled to himself. He’d survived Lowtown and Darktown for ten years with nothing but his will and the barest shred of hope for a better tomorrow; he’d not be defeated by some bad weather and limited medical supplies.

            “Aye, Commander,” he replied and left, returning to the main hall, and heading to the undercroft. When he entered, he tried to remain unobtrusive. He felt naked without his armor; the familiar weight of the heavy plate had become something of a comfort to him. Without it he felt exposed, frail even. As he shut the door behind him, he found the Arcanist hard at work, mostly with her books open, and the Inquisitor— _Hadiza_ —standing in her battlemage armor, watching the pages intently. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he could hear the distinct notes of intense conversation, and the cheery undertone in the Arcanist’s voice.

            “You need something or you here to ogle Her Worship all day?” It was the blacksmith, Harritt, coming to stand before him, wiping oil and grime from his hands with a stained rag. Samson blinked, turning an offended gaze on the other man.

            “I wasn’t…” He caught himself, “Yes. I need something but the Arcanist is clearly busy. I’ll be on my—“

            “Samson!” Hadiza’s voice carried over the dull roar of the waterfall, echoing against the damp stone and he halted his retreat as surely as if a leash had been pulled. He swore he saw a smirk beneath Harritt’s mustache and frowned.

            “Inquisitor.” Samson said by way of greeting. She made a careless gesture, the sharp claws of her gauntlet beckoning him to join her in the laboratory. Samson went, and as he grew closer, tried to read her expression. She was as calm as the doldrums, and not even her usually expressive eyes gave him any answers.

            “Did you need something?” She asked. Samson snorted derisively.

            “Inquisition sure is bloody _concerned_ with my needs today,” he sneered, but attempted to withhold the venom of his tone. Hadiza’s brows went up, somewhat nonplussed. Samson momentarily forgot that they had quarreled bitterly.

            “It is not everyday one of our prisoners simply wanders into the undercroft,” Hadiza said in a neutral tone, “I hope you did not detour from your other tasks to malinger here.” Samson’s lip curled. So she’d play that game, eh? Very well, then.

            “I came here to see the Arcanist about helping me find a way to combat this corruption in my body.” He took some small satisfaction in Hadiza’s surprise, watched the frosty shield she’d so carefully raised between them begin to thaw. She sighed.

            “I don’t know how much help I can be in that area,” Dagna chimed in, “every test I’ve run has the results coming up with inevitability.” Samson glanced down at her.

            “I know. That’s not what I’m here for. I don’t want you to stop it, Arcanist. No one can stop it but Coypheus. I just need something that can help me function day to day.” Dagna pursed her lips, thinking to herself, then nodded.

            “If it’s lyrium, there might be a way to manipulate it…” She was muttering to herself, then looked up at Hadiza, “I’d need your permission to continue, of course, Your Worship.” Hadiza said nothing for a moment, and then gave a slow nod.

            “If he is willing, then I see no reason to gainsay it.” She said evenly; and then, at Samson’s expression she resisted the urge to roll her eyes, “But yes. You’ve my permission to seek a remedy.” Samson held her gaze a moment longer, and she seemed to shut him out, schooling her expression to calm. He was certain of it, then: he’d slammed the door on whatever had been burgeoning between them. Well and so, he would not let his reach exceed his grasp.

            “Dagna,” Hadiza turned her attention once more to the Arcanist, “I’ve a meeting in the war room, we’ll continue our discussion of your research later.” She took her leave, according Samson a cordial nod as she did. Dagna watched her go, smiling glibly.

            “So,” she began, “I guess we better get started. I’m going to have to take blood and tissue samples to determine the rate of corruption…maybe even crack the cause of it.” Samson swallowed hard. He knew the routine, and was already unlacing the stays of his shirt and tugging it over his head as he made his way to the examination table.

 

* * *

 

            The war room was quiet in the wake of the news, and Hadiza swore she could hear her blood rushing through the intricate piping of her veins, her heart dropping into the acid pit of her stomach, filling her with acrid smoke, setting her nerves aflame. She took in a deep breath, nostrils flaring, eyes darting over the words on the parchment again, wishing they said anything else.

            “You are certain of this?” Her voice was a ghost in the room, a pale echo that mirrored the words of the Spymaster before her. Her advisors looked none too pleased, but Hadiza felt as if their displeasure wasn’t enough. The parchment in her hand trembled like a leaf before a violent storm, matching the tremor in the hand that held it. Leliana shut her eyes slowly and knew the true measure of her failure in this mission.

            “Yes, Inquisitor,” she said as cool as she could manage, “all of them were lost in the final effort. The mining shaft collapsed before any could escape.” There was no answer from the Inquisitor, who slowly lowered the paper, staring at the map where the failure was marked for all to see.

            “So,” she said quietly, “the Grey Wardens—what was left of them here in Southern Thedas—the ones I worked so tirelessly to save, the Wardens I _sacrificed the Champion of Kirkwall_ to save, are all dead.”

            No one missed the honed barbs in her words, and even Leliana, for all her calm, could not ignore the sting of the words, the way the Inquisitor’s tone sought to hook beneath the skin, lifting it from the bone as she gathered her fury into an angry thunderhead before them. Hadiza had no pity or sympathy for her, and looked up to meet the gazes of her advisors, the storm darkening steely eyes to storm cloud gray.

            “I put my absolute faith and trust in you all to do what I lack the credentials and experience to accomplish,” Hadiza told them in her trademark dangerously quiet tone, “I trust you all to use your own better judgment in situations like this.” Her eyes, pale and frosty, cut to Leliana, and for the expression of absolute rage on Hadiza’s face, it was as sure as the arc of a blade,“What possessed you to think **_this_** was the best solution?”

            “Inquisitor, had I not, the darkspawn would have—“

            “What?! The darkspawn would have gotten out? So you decided to throw the last of the surviving Wardens at them? I chose you because I expected you to use discretion and pragmatism, Leliana! If I had wanted a desperate, last-ditch attempt I would have sent Cullen!”

            Cullen shifted uneasily on his feet, slightly offended but he’d not dare provoke Hadiza in the midst of a tirade. She rarely displayed her fury, but he knew better than to provoke it, and even more to step within the line of fire.

            “What do we do if Corypheus’ next plan of action is to cause a Blight? Ferelden is still patching wounds from the last one, and you should know! You helped put an end to it! Orlais is wounded from civil war! There is nothing to stand between the darkspawn and Thedas if this happens, because you decided that the Wardens were better served plugging holes than conserving their already low numbers!” Hadiza tossed the report onto the table contemptuously, and her fury wandered about the room, unleashed, the violent energy coiling around her like a living thing. The air in the war room was charged with it, and Cullen felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle in warning, feeling the pull of magic, however faint, drawing toward Hadiza. She was the singularity around which this moment warped, and for a moment, he feared her. Truly.

            “All of them!” She shouted, heedless of her temper, “What did I besiege Adamant for? Maker!” She turned away from them, trying to rein in her composure, trying to gain some semblance of control. The atmosphere of the room was still charged, but less so. Rather than the press of a coming storm, it was only the heavy weight that threatened rain. Hadiza knifed her hands through her hair and sucked in a breath. In this single failure, she felt truly incompetent, as if it were nearly a year prior, when she’d stumbled out of the Fade with an unidentifiable mark on her hand and the Divine’s death on her head…and no memory of any of it. What would her detractors think of this? She saved the Wardens only to throw their lives away in a skirmish! What would her _allies_ think? Andraste preserve her, was there no end to this mess? She shut her eyes, breathed deep, willed herself to find that calm center amidst the maelstrom trapped in her body. When she could breathe without trembling, she opened her eyes.

            “I will march upon Corypheus soon,” she said quietly, “mayhap sooner given the newest hole in our defense. Commander, where is our Maker-bedamned army?”

            “We’ve received word that they are preparing to march back to Skyhold,” Cullen answered, watching the tense line of Hadiza’s shoulders and back, “but…there are a great many wounded, Inquisitor; many who won’t survive the journey.” He saw her fist clench tightly, and his mouth set in a grim line.

            “So be it.” Hadiza said quietly, “I shall gather my companions and we’ll lay out an assault plan. If the army cannot assist, then I must have a contingency.” She turned back toward them, “You all are dismissed for the time being. I need time to assess this rather egregious error.” She watched them incline their heads toward her, filing out in silence. Cullen lingered.

            “Not now.” Hadiza said harshly, when he made an attempt to reach for her, “Not until I’ve had time.” Cullen said nothing, sighing and turning away to leave her alone in the war room. Hadiza stared at the map again, leaning over it. What was the old adage? _Heavy is the head that bears the crown_.

            There was no crown, yet Hadiza felt the weight of her title on her head all the same. After another moment, she turned and left the war room, making her way toward Skyhold’s lower chambers.

 

* * *

 

            When Dagna finally released Samson, the sun was setting, and he couldn’t wait to eat. His appetite, however, was not as prodigious as he predicted, and after only one bowl of beef stew and hard bread, washed down with ale, he retreated back to his cell. Of course, when he saw the Inquisitor making her way through the corridor, at first he opted to ignore her. Since their quarrel, they hadn’t gotten a chance to speak, and he’d never have presumed to make amends, despite that needling desire to. But he went for her, because he couldn’t do anything else. He found her in the scrying room, standing in the ruined circle, most of it burned away from her last attempt to find Corypheus. Her back was to him, and he saw her shoulders shudder, heard the sharp intake of breath.

            “Did you need something?” Hadiza asked, her voice warbling, “Or are you just going to stand there and watch me?” Samson hesitated, and took the path of humor.

            “Well,” he said in his best attempt at flirting, “can’t say the view is terrible. I hope you aren’t going to look for Corypheus again.” Hadiza’s shoulders shook again and she turned to him. Her cheeks were stained with tear trails, her nose running, eyes wet. In either hand she held the sundered pieces of the scrying diadem, and she looked down at them, uncertain.

            “No.” She said, “I just…today was very difficult. I needed a quiet place to…to…” And without warning, she burst into tears. She turned away from him quickly, trying to stop it. But the dam was broken, cracked beneath the weight of her title, broken beneath the weight of her failure. So many people were dead because of her, and how many of them need not be had she simply made another choice? Samson watched for a moment, uncertain in the face of such naked vulnerability. To comfort her would wound her pride, he knew, and to simply wait or leave her would make him seem uncaring. And despite everything, he was not that. He’d learned too much of his former adversary to not care about her.

            “Long day, I take it.” He wished he knew what to say, but first he needed to know what happened. Hadiza let out a laugh rife with bitterness.

            “With no signs of ending.” She said in a broken voice. She sniffled, wiped her face with the edge of her sleeve. Samson waited, lingering in the doorway. Finally, he sighed, shut his eyes, and damned himself.

            “You gonna tell me what happened?” He asked her and opened his eyes to find her facing him again. She shifted on her feet, and for a moment it was hard for him to believe this woman, in tears and holding a broken diadem, had been the one to defeat him in the Wilds. He’d been at full strength when he faced her, and she’d tossed her head like a proud filly, prancing about with that bladed staff of her, slinging spells and trash-talking him the entire time. To see her here, like this, it reminded him that she—like him—was just another mortal soul swept up in the tide of a conflict beyond their ken. It was that alone that gave him the courage to address her thus.

            “The Wardens are dead.” She said flatly. Samson drew back, blinking, but recovered. He hadn’t expected the Wardens to survive what Corypheus put them through, and admittedly, he hadn’t paid much attention to that arm of the machine as he had his own faction to lead, but now he wished he had.

            “I spared them,” Hadiza continued, and began to pace, “after Adamant. To everyone’s chagrin, of course. They…I thought perhaps they could redeem themselves when this was all over. There have always been darkspawn about, and if the last blight taught anyone anything, it’s that it never hurts to keep Wardens around.”

            “Aye,” Samson agreed, “so you spared them. How’d you lose them?” He’d made his way further into the room, and Hadiza sighed, staring at the map of Thedas pinned on the far wall. Samson took that opportunity to sit in the comfort of a chair, groaning with relief. Softest damned thing he’d sat in all day.

            “Foolishly,” Hadiza answered, “and recklessly. I had thought one of my advisors would act with pragmatism in a certain matter but they…did not. And now Southern Thedas has no Wardens to speak of. If Corypheus’ next move is—was—to send a Blight…we’d be, to put it mildly, _fucked_.”

            Samson laughed.

            Hadiza turned on him, eyes sharp, lip curled.

            “Something funny, Samson?” She asked dangerously. Samson rubbed at his mouth, his thumb pressing at the spot where his tooth was missing, the one she’d knocked clear of his mouth in their battle.

            “You’re fretting over what might happen, when you already have a plan to thrash Corypheus in place, for one,” he remarked, “and I get it: losing men is hard. I should know. But the Wardens are the kind of lot who know exactly what they’re getting into. I’ve that much wit left to me to see that.”

            “But they’re dead because of me.”

            “No, they’re dead because they fought to the last breath. You did the best you could with what you had, and sometimes that means lives are lost.” Samson’s gaze became unfocused, as if he were gazing past her, at another time, “Sometimes that means decisions are made that hurt the heart, but it’s for the greater good.” Hadiza narrowed her eyes, tossing the broken diadem pieces onto the wooden desk.

            “Is that what you said to justify your actions?” She asked, “That you were doing this for the greater good?” Samson’s gaze sharpened and he focused on her.

            “I did what I thought was right, Inquisitor,” he said, “and I make no excuses for the brutality of it. You’ve already judged me and found me wanting, but you clearly saw some merit in me otherwise my head would be on a pike in Kirkwall by now.” Hadiza said nothing, merely held his gaze, breathing deeply.

            “I don’t know what I saw,” she said at last, “but I don’t think your head being mounted in Kirkwall would have served anyone, least of all the ‘greater good.’” Samson gave her his shark-toothed grin, leaning back in the chair. The grin faded, and Hadiza noted how grim he looked, or mayhap it was the lighting.

            “I suppose not. But I’ve nothing left to lose. I’ve already lost everything I ever cared about. You, on the other hand, stand to lose everything if you don’t pull yourself together and go get Corypheus.” Hadiza looked away, hugging her arms as if the room were suddenly chilly. The torches were lit, but there was no cheery warmth within these walls of stone. Samson stood up, wincing as his knees cracked.

            “Look at me.” He said to her, and she looked up at him slowly, “Maker, don’t look so damned sad. From what I’ve seen, you’re a more competent leader than I gave you credit for.” Hadiza narrowed her eyes again.

            “Your esteem is embarrassing,” she said dryly and he grinned, “…go on.”

            “Don’t let it go to your head. You’ve got to slay a blighted dragon and a darkspawn magister before you get any real praise from me.” Hadiza frowned briefly, and then smiled.

            “You know what? You’re absolutely right.” She said and Samson laughed. Of course he was. He knew a competent warrior when he saw one. Hadiza tapped her lips with her index finger.

            “And when we are standing over the cooling corpse of said darkspawn magister, you will clap me on the shoulder and congratulate me yourself.”

            “Now wait just a minute,” Samson protested, “who said I was—“ Hadiza began to make her way toward the door.

            “Now, now, Samson,” she laughed, “now is not the time for modesty. You wish to take full measure of my worth before you bestow upon me accolades worthy of legend? Then you shall have to accompany me into the field. Consider it part of your debt to society.”

            “Hadiza Trevelyan, I am not raising my sword for some hopped up rogue division of the Chantry…” Samson growled. Hadiza laughed.

            “The Chantry denounced us as heretics, remember?” She turned her back to him, pausing in the doorway, “Whatever you were before, you are now part of the Inquisition. I hope your sword arm is as good as it was in the Wilds. You’ll need it.”

            Samson watched her go, wishing he’d never opened his fool mouth, because now he was smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point I realize no one is truly reading this fic except me, so hence the rather self-indulgent bits. And if you **are** reading this fic, then let me know in the comments or something. Otherwise I'll continue sacrificing all my words to the quiet of the Abyss.


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